Splintered Loyalties

by S. B. Sebrick

  "Thank you," Kade nodded weakly. "You've done more for the city than I gave you credit for."

  "You risked far more than I," Lanasha countered, eyeing his burned and battered body. "Issamere is lucky to have a High Priest as powerful and selfless as you. I only hope the Etrendi follow your example."

  To her servants Lanasha added, "Take these men to my personal chambers. I will oversee their healing personally."

  A thrill of elation caught Keevan's mind. She'd called them all men, including himself. He coughed nervously, then asked, "With all due respect, High Priestess, my parents are better versed at tending to Outlanders. Are the streets safe enough for me to walk home?"

  "They are now, young Stratagar," Lanasha said, with a soft smile. "And for your friend?"

  "He can come too," Keevan said, drawing a huff of surprise and gratitude from Falletal. "My mother is a skilled Suadan and my friend here has nowhere else to go."

  "As you wish," Lanasha agreed, waving more attendants over. "They will see you safely to your home. Safe journeys."

  The pace was slow and each step sent a wave of pain through Keevan's blistered ankles. He grit his teeth against the constant discomfort. Every inch of his body ached from some malady, burn or wound. He marveled at the irony of facing icy cold and stone-melting magma, all in the same day.

  The fog slowed their passage and carried a wave of solemnity into the minds of the Tri-Beings they passed on the roads. Despite Kade's quick response when the riot broke out, too many bodies littered the streets for Keevan to count. Some were charred or savaged beyond recognition. Others were surrounded in frosty corpses, where loved ones gave in to despair at the passing of a cherished father or brother.

  Far too many of the bodies were children, simply trampled under in the chaos of the riot. Raejin's priests and acolytes were already working among the dead, marking them for burial. Suadans worked through the piles as well, pulling wounded from among the corpses.

  Keevan wordlessly watched the display as they walked, despair stirring in his chest. They'd won, hadn't they? The Bastrom was dead, Morgra imprisoned and soon Zerik would turn himself in. Seeing the lives lost along the way though, set a grim determination in Keevan's mind. Whatever the cost, he would repay the survivors for the harm his actions had caused, however indirectly.

  By the time they reached his house, Keevan's good humor had faded. He tried to convince himself that the Great Malik would see justice done, but deep down, nothing would restore life to those tiny bodies they'd passed. He stood outside the door, glancing around nervously. What awaited him inside? Had Masha or Nariem joined the ranks of the dead? He rapped on the door three times, took a deep breath and waited.

  "Keevan!" Bahjal cried, tackling him so hard they stumbled into the street. Her fierce hug drew a hiss of pain when she collided with his blistered skin. She winced in regret, hopping away a step. "I'm so sorry, Keeves. I'm so sorry."

  "You were missed," Falletal observed with a chuckle, leaning against the wall.

  "I'm alright," Keevan insisted, trying to pry her hands from his shoulders. Despite the physical pain though, he couldn't stop smiling. Bahjal was back, with her warm smile and soft embrace. He could feel the barrier between them breaking down, though only a deep conversation with her would fully explain why. "Ease up. Burns are no fun."

  "What happened?" Masha asked, poking her head out the door. "Get inside my son, tell us everything. You're burned! Here."

  Keevan followed her into the house, where he sat down on a chair in the dining room. Masha and Bajhal helped peel the burned tunic from his skin, wincing sympathetically when Keevan hissed in pain. Nariem emerged from the kitchen, still carrying a smithing hammer, just in case.

  "My boy, I'm happy you're safe," Nariem said, gently tussling Keevan's hair.

  "Me too," Keevan chuckled. "This is Falletal, by the way. He helped me escape the dungeons."

  "Pleasure to meet you," Nariem said, shaking Falletal's hand. "You kept my son safe through all of this? Are you a Persuader?"

  Falletal shrugged uneasily, "Actually, I make clothes. Linen and wool mostly."

  Bahjal paused in her care of Keevan, examining Falletal from head to toe. "You're a Rhetan and you were out in that nightmare, trying to help Keevan?"

  "Well, to be fair," Falletal admitted, "the boy saved me first. I was just returning the favor."

  "There will be time for stories. Let me finish tending to my boy," Masha interrupted, lightly touching the worst of Keevan's blisters, running along the back of his heels. "The Malik wouldn't tell us where he put you. He said it was for your own protection."

  "He wasn't the main problem. Just an enraged Bastrom," Keevan grunted, still unable to banish his persistent grin. "Nothing my friends and I couldn't handle. This is Falletal. He risked his life to help me escape the dungeons."

  "Sorry to interrupt," Falletal croaked hoarsely, sitting up. "But, can I trouble you for some water? You can't tell from the fog, but it was very hot out there."

  "What happened at the palace?" Masha asked, drawing water from the air, and coating the cool liquid around Keevan's blisters. He sighed in relief. Nariem ducked into the kitchen for a moment, returning with two cups of water, handing one to Falletal.

  "High Priest Kade is calling the Great Malik," Keevan announced, leaning forward so Masha could reach the worst of his wounds. He took a cup from Nariem, nodding gratefully as he took a sip. The cool water felt divine on his tongue. "Malik Morgra has been imprisoned and Zerik will turn himself in, once the Great Malik arrives."

  Masha hesitated at those words. The water around Keevan's ankles dripped onto the floor at her momentary loss of concentration. Nariem folded his arms, stroking his chin in deep thought. Bahjal bit her lower lip nervously, stroking Keevan's hair.

  "What's wrong?" Keevan asked uneasily. "The war between Zerik and Morgra is over. Isn't that a good thing?"

  "For Issamere, yes," Masha admitted. "But... the Great Malik..."

  "He might pick a new Malik for Issamere, Keevan," Bahjal said softly, kneeling down next to him. "Please don't worry about it too much, but the Great Malik is closely aligned to the Harbor Guild. They protect the western shores of every Tri-Being in Hiertalia."

  "What exactly are you saying?" Keevan echoed.

  Bahjal kissed the crown of his head, the only part of him not recently frozen or burned. "I'm sure the Great Malik has heard of you, but he's never met you personally. He's very... thorough, is all. I'm not sure what he'll decide to do about a lone outlander living in Issamere, particularly when you've had a direct hand in Issamere's last two major catastrophes."

  "I was trying to stop them. Both times," Keevan insisted, pouting in annoyance.

  "The Great Malik sees only power and the potential for increasing it," Masha warned, sharing a knowing gaze with Nariem. "He might see you as a potential threat. We will do our best to prepare you, but if he chooses an Etrendi from the Harbor Guild as the new Malik, your best hope is exile."

  "It's a good thing we have someplace to run, if needed," Bahjal insisted, hugging Keevan tightly. He groaned from the pain, but she didn't relent her grip. "A little mining town on the edge of the mountains. Just in case."

  "I don't think it will come to that," Nariem nodded wisely. "We will speak to the tribunal. The High Priests and Priestess are the minds that matter and Keevan has not openly defied any of them. We will find a way."

  "Yes," Keevan agreed, wrapping a blistered arm around Bahjal's shoulder. She smelled like honey and melon. Feeling her close and seeing her smile felt so wonderful he didn't feel the pain of his blistered limbs. He smiled contently. "We always do."

  *****

  "Master Zerik!" The Suadan priest sputtered, stumbling away from the door. His linen loops were torn away long ago, leaving only patches of loose fabric sticking out of his tunic and trousers, like a partially plucked chicken. "What are you doing here?"

  "I need to speak with Kors," Zerik said, barreling into the infirmary as
he cast his cane aside. A few other patients looked up from their cots, but wisely held their tongues. Water coiled around his limbs, supporting his body where his muscles would have failed him.

  "It's not wise to get my patient riled up, Master Zerik," The Suadan continued, falling behind while Zerik plunged further down the re-purposed mine shaft. A stream trickled down the tunnel, bringing a constant supply of the precious element to his followers. "Suada's mercy, you should be resting yourself."

  "In a few months' time, I will be ruling or dead," Zerik grunted, hurrying further into the dark corridor. He didn't bother to light the torches, pushing water out ahead of him to mark any obstacles, including the door he intended to open.

  The Suadan priest quieted a moment, surprised by Zerik's words. For a moment, Zerik regretted barreling past the man. This healer knew his way around a wound better than most and even held a position among Morgra's personal aids, before financial problems drove the Suadan into Zerik's arms. Another wonderful find from the Stranger's agents.

  "I assume the riots did not go as planned?" The Suadan asked.

  "Listen in, if you'd like," Zerik invited, pulling the heavy oak door open. Iron hinges squeaked in the darkness. "I'd rather only say this once."

  As he pulled the wooden barrier aside, Zerik reached out with his elemental field and smiled. Kors' field pushed back, tearing Zerik's water free and drawing the liquid further into the darkness. Zerik caught a hold of the doorframe to steady himself, suddenly lacking the fluid's life-giving influence.

  "That you, Zerik?" Kors rumbled from the darkness. "Get the lights, would you? You know fire isn't my thing anymore."

  "Yes, of course," Zerik grunted, reaching around the doorframe. He felt the torch and ignited the pitch-soaked tip with a puff of flame from his fingers, flooding the small chamber with orange light.

  Kors sat on the edge of a stone slab. His left arm ended in a stump at the wrist. The fingers of his right hand were shriveled beyond use. Little remained of his thick muscles, long dark hair or even his irritable nature. Black ink and scar tissue traced a crooked path along his bone structure, following his arms, legs, torso, spine and face.

  "Hello, Zerik," Kors said, his voice eerily flat and calm. "I assume your little rebellion just fell flat on its face, or you'd be dancing right now."

  "Indeed," Zerik grunted, taking a seat on the misshapen rock next to the door.

  "I told you, your chances were better with me on the battlefield," Kors insisted. His voice carried no malice, only cool calm. "But you decided to leave me here."

  "You aren't ready for combat, yet," The Suadan insisted, lighting two other torches as he walked around the room. With the room fully illuminated, he inspected Kors' scars. "We've finished up the implants, but your body needs time to recover and grow accustomed to your new abilities."

  "I'd rather discover those gifts in combat," Kors grumbled, rolling his head from one side to the other as he stretched his muscles neck. "There's only so much one can learn from verbal discussion or a theoretical study of 'elemental theories'."

  "You will have your chance," Zerik promised, stroking the thin beard on his haggard chin as he leaned back against the wall. "Kade has summoned the Great Malik."

  "A gutsy move," Kors nodded, "Do you think you can win back your throne through the Great Malik?"

  "I might be able to convince him," Zerik said, holding up one finger. "If not, you will be the one to deal with Morgra and possibly Kade. Are you sure you can take them?"

  Kors smiled, closed his eyes and slowly inhaled. Water from the stream seeped into the room, pooling above him like an upside down pond, creeping down the walls as the room filled with fluid. Countless tendrils of water enveloped him, extending from the ceiling, wall and floor, lifting Kors into the air. The liquid swirled around the torches, without extinguishing them, giving the withered Tri-Being a particularly demonic appearance.

  "Amazing," Zerik muttered, staring at the display. "So this is the advantage of a full water Danica implant?"

  "Yes, Master Zerik," The Suadan echoed excitedly. "When Kors lost his hands, his abilities with fire diminished, but his command of water increased dramatically. We've fully lined his muscles with water Danica to amplify those abilities even further."

  "I just saw Malik Morgra's abilities first hand," Zerik advised, holding up a finger in caution. "Why do you think Kors will be victorious?"

  "Malik Morgra, along with his Persuader pet," The Suadan said, thrusting out his chest in pride. "Both their bodies are fused with Danica in thirds. One third water, another fire, another electricity. In Kors' case, we've fully bonded him to a single element, water. The effect is...fascinating."

  "Wonderful," Zerik agreed, clapping enthusiastically as he watched Kors hover above the ground. This Tri-Being was actually strong enough to command water to take semi-solid forms, like ropes from which to swing. "You have two months to train, Kors. Then the Great Malik will arrive and I will have need of your services. Will you be ready?"

  "Will that runt of a Sight Seeker still be in town? My sister as well?" Kors asked, licking his lips in anticipation. "Last time, I didn't get the chance to give them a proper farewell."

  "Oh, indeed," Zerik promised with a dark chuckle. "Once I'm Malik, they're all yours."

  "Perfect," Kors agreed, the watery tendrils around him quivering in excitement. "Absolutely perfect."

  ###

  Sample Chapter of 'Persuader's Might'

  "Faster boy," Madol shouted, his practice sword snapping against Keevan's defenses. Two torches illuminated just enough of the weapons to force both swordsman to rely on instinct as well as sight. "If you ever want to beat Merkim, you'll-"

  Keevan's fierce counter-attack cut the Persuader's words short. Their wooden swords cracked against each other with the ferocity of an enthusiastic applause. Madol stepped back, wearing a sly smile as he analyzed his student's defenses.

  "I hate that look of yours," Keevan grunted, twirling his sword from a feint to a strike, only to slap the wooden weapon against another one of Madol's quick counters.

  "What look?" Madol asked innocently, never flinching from his persistent grin, as if there were a sadistic joke in the air only he understood.

  "Like you're about to make fun of me. Or beat me with your bare fists," Keevan said, gritting his teeth in frustration as Madol landed a firm blow on his wrist.

  "Talking breaks your focus," Madol warned, the 'thousand-yard-stare' in his eyes made the Persuader's smile all the more menacing. "Don't be lured into a conversation. You set your attention on the center of your opponent. Use all your senses."

  "Got it," Keevan gasped, taking a step back. His sword arm burned with fatigue. "I need a mome-"

  Madol advanced, pressing his advantage. The Persuader's arms, peaking out from beneath his armor, glowed orange along his veins, as he drew on heat to fuel his muscles. Keevan grit his teeth and tried to match his opponent's endurance and power, but the Persuader's hardened muscles were tireless. Madol got in three more solid blows before he relented.

  "That was rather harsh," Keevan hissed, massaging his right wrist and his left shoulder.

  "You protected your head consistently, even when fatigued," Madol shrugged, hanging his practice sword on the wall of the cavern. He walked over to a bucket of water, scooping out a sip with a ladle. Then he poured out a scoop over his face, sighing in relief. "You're getting better. Another month or so and I think you'll be able to give Merkim a run for his money."

  "You just wanted payback for me interrupting you," Keevan accused, his voice full of playful spite.

  "The first of many tactics you will come across," Madol agreed, taking another sip of water before continuing. "Designed with the sole intention of leaving you dead in a ditch."

  "So, I should be thanking you?" Keevan chuckled, wincing. He could feel the bruises forming under his leather armor. He wondered if Madol truly struck that hard, or the protective layers Keevan wore were intentionally weake
ned, to make sure each blow carried plenty of emphasis.

  "If this were a real fight, you'd be short a hand," Madol said, taking a seat by the table loaded with training weapons. "You won't be lulled off guard by a conversation next time. You're welcome."

  "Alright, alright," Keevan laughed, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. "Thank you."

  "The Great Malik will summon you any day now," Madol said, watching Keevan with a measuring gaze. "Your fame will no longer be restricted to Issamere. Nobles from the High City, with connections and agents across all of Hiertalia, will see an Outlander first hand. Best to ensure their first impression is a pleasing one."

  "Why do I get the feeling you're trying to prepare me for something?" Keevan asked.

  Keevan walked over to the water bucket, helping himself to a ladle of the cool liquid, sighing contently as relief ran down his throat. The last two months had immersed Keevan with grueling days of training, pleasantly interrupted by quiet picnics with Bahjal. They hadn't tried to kiss again. They simply enjoyed each other's company. "You could at least give me something specific to watch out for?"

  "I don't know what's coming," Persuader Madol admitted with a hollow shrug. "The Great Malik hasn't visited Issamere since the Tribunal selected Malik Morgra to rule our little city, decades ago. The best advice I can give you is to train for the unexpected."

  "I'll take whatever help I can get," Keevan nodded, taking a chair across from Madol. "However cryptic. I'm going to miss these quiet days though. Wasn't it amazing how the city calmed down, once Kade called for the Great Malik?"

  "The Great Malik rules Hiertalia from the City of Glass," Persuader Madol explained. He pulled a throwing knife from the table, tossing and catching the weapon repeatedly with either hand. "He can dismiss anyone from any position of responsibility at will, as can his agents. The Etrendi are preparing for another kind of war, one of words, opinion and blame. Each will try to convince the Great Malik that the others were at fault, in the hopes of preserving their place in Issamere."