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n_wilkinsona/n: I'm looking to finish up posting the fics I have finished. So expect to see a LOT of ficcage over the next few weeks. This is unbeta'ed but readable. Enjoy! Also, fans of Minutes to Midnight will recognize some of the following events...
Title: Whispers of Yesterday
Series: Infinity's End, Book Two
Description: Now firmly entrenched in the Theravada -- and firmly involved with Gale as well -- Ione discovers the hidden sides of both Grayshire and Theravada. She questions her own decisions -- and her feelings -- as the war takes on a more murderous, personal turn for the worst.
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21)
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Chapter Seven
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Gale should have expected this. Should have anticipated that Grayshire would find a means to attack them at their most vulnerable. After all, the nobles hadn’t blinked at sending in a Brigade quintile to be sacrificed. Why would they care for the lives of a Special Ops douzaine?
It was unusual that the Special Ops would allow themselves to be noticed before. He wondered if it had something to do with the fact their leader seemed to know Ione. Had the douzaine been following them since they entered Varos? How had the douzaine known to find them here? Why? What was their purpose?
That much should have been obvious. Gale was the face of the Theravada, the one that Grayshire suspected of being the leader. Grayshire had no clue about Azriel, no idea that the real brains behind the rebels was one of their own, still underground.
“Somehow, I can’t see this as a coincidence,” Ione said frostily, and Gale was rather proud of her, though it was clear she was torn. The unmasked woman was obviously a friend of hers, perhaps from her Conservatory days.
She looked young, too young to be a douzaine leader. Either Grayshire was getting desperate, or she was really the cream of the crop.
The woman smiled broader and let loose a deep, throaty chuckle. “You always were sharp, Ione. Though I can’t seem to reconcile that with what’s going on here.” A gloved hand gestured vaguely to the rebels crowded behind Ione, a grey gaze landing briefly on Gale before returning to Ione. “Siding with traitors? I never took you for the sort.”
Her voice was pleasant, playful even, but her words were like weapons. Slicing sharp and deep, stabbing to the core.
“I’ve opened my eyes, Anisa,” Ione said, finally providing a name for the face. “Perhaps you should consider the same.” And for a moment, Ione’s hard edges softened by her regret, her reluctance to fight another familiar face. Gale had no doubts that another time and another battle were repeating themselves in the back of Ione’s mind – Faye and Iapetus Lake, and a moment Ione could never take back.
Tilting her head to the side, Anisa pressed a gloved finger to the corner of her mouth as though seriously considering Ione’s words. “You know that I can’t do that. We all have our duties, same as you once did. You’ve forgotten the vow you made, but I haven’t. I can’t let you walk away. Can you imagine how that would look to Commander Misae?”
Ione tensed, her aether wavering around her in uneasy ripples. “Anisa...”
The douzaine leader shrugged, spreading her hands flippantly. “These things just can’t be helped, can they?” she said, her word acting as calls to battle.
Gale felt the tide of the meeting shift, from casual to battle, and turned, drawing his blade to meet the oncoming attack of one of the Special Ops members. Blue eyes gleamed at him from a face completely concealed, barely flinching as a barrage of quick attacks by dagger rained down against Gale’s broad blade.
The douzaine attacked as one cohesive unit, and Gale could only focus on himself, his own safety. He trusted the others to take care of themselves, but he couldn’t shake a nagging concern that something wasn’t right with this situation. Did they truly have such terrible luck to stumble upon a Special Ops team in the middle of the Varos Flats? And did it have to be the team whose leader knew Ione personally?
Gale didn’t like the taste of so many coincidences.
His aether flared and Gale’s blade whipped through the air, dispatching one member of the douzaine before an attack could even be made. He fought to rein in his magic before it could venture far from his body, unwilling to tempt fate and invite misfortune. Gale had no desire to become a Merihem.
Gale ducked under a high kick from one assassin and whirled to avoid the lashing, fire-covered fist. His blade flashed, catching the high sun, as he slammed the flat of it against the first opponent’s back. The assassin stumbled away and Gale flung out his other hand on instinct, sending a burst of pure aether at the Special Ops’ chest.
The man, or woman perhaps since Gale couldn’t tell with the masks, grunted as the blow propelled him backward by several steps. But he wasn’t the only one. Gale, too, stumbled as a sharp stab of something tore from his chest, the minor use of his aether as powerful as though he’d called a tidal wave. He gasped for breath, feeling abruptly dizzy.
No wonder Kieran had said not to use magic here.
Trying to fight through a rising nausea, Gale firmly clamped his aether inside himself, and backpedaled to avoid the blade of another assassin. A dagger whistled dangerously close to his chest and Gale batted away the weapon with his sword, struggling to regain his equilibrium. His opponent pressed on, dark clothes concealing a lithe body that belonged to a woman perhaps. He lashed out with his sword, cutting a deep gouge in his opponent’s side as thorny brush grabbed at his clothes, nicking the well-spun threads.
Gale dodged another blow, moving quicker than the trained assassin, and struck, causing a deep, bloody wound in his opponent’s thigh. The Special Ops went down, giving Gale the first opportunity to draw breath and glance around, trying to find his companions.
Of Siobhan, he saw nothing but a blur as she ducked and dodged, weaving amid the members of the douzaine as though in the middle of a dance and not a battle for her life. Her glasses gleamed, a smile curling her painted lips as though thrilled. Such an incongruity that one, sharing a passion for both battle and science all in the same delicate, flirty form.
Kieran was calmly facing his opponents with a skill only one taught by Sabriel could accomplish. His short, blunt sword expertly fended off the assassins as he ducked and weaved between them, nearly copying his opponent’s moves exactly. Sabriel had been Special Ops, after all, and he’d passed much of his skills on to Kieran. Azriel would be so proud. It helped that Kieran was a master at hand to hand combat as well, Gale supposed.
Unsurprisingly, Ione and the douzaine’s leader had squared off with no other member of the team daring to interfere. The two women were trading blows, as though feeling each other out, fighting without blades and using only martial arts. Ione, much like Siobhan, was so graceful it was like watching a dance. While Anisa hit hard and heavy, like a man, but had the flexibility and elegance of a woman – a deadly combination.
And Helene…
Gale twisted to avoid an assassin’s attack, nearly losing sight of Helene in the onslaught. She had been surrounded by most of the douzaine, at least four, and her heavy swings were driving them back, but not down. Helene’s weapon wasn’t made to kill, not unless she struck a sufficiently strong blow to the head. And here in Varos, where to use her magic was a death sentence, she could at best defend. But these were the Special Ops. A mere blow to the shoulder or knee wouldn’t bring them down. They wouldn’t stop unless there was no life left in them.
Spinning, Gale slammed the hilt of his blade into one opponent’s jaw and kicked out at another, giving himself room to work. He cut down one assassin without a second glance and turned to another, wondering how much more were left. It was such a blur of fighting, of struggling to keep his aether locked inside of him where it threatened to bubble out. His mana wanted to flow, to be free, but Gale couldn’t let that happen.
Helene…
Slicing through one assassin who collapsed with a cry of pain, Gale turned, trying to catch sight of Sabriel’s special one. He’d promised after all.
There was a tide of dark-clothed bodies and Gale’s own companions dispersed amongst them. Blood already painted the dry ground of Varos a ghastly shade, though so far, the few fallen were the enemy.
It would have been so much easier if they could have used their magic. But then, such was in their favor as well because members of the Special Ops were just as trained in the Arts as the rest of them. The battle could have been worse.
Gale parried the stab of a jitte, blade screeching in the prongs at the hilt, and slammed a fist into his opponent’s face. Gale wasn’t as strong, physically, as someone like say Malcolm, but the blow wasn’t one to be ignored either. Something crunched beneath his knuckles and a garbled cry of pain emerged from behind the dark mask.
His opponent backpedaled, nose no doubt broken, as his grip on his jitte faltered. Gale untangled his sword from the weapon and pressed forward, cutting down the disoriented assassin before he could regain his balance.
A cry of distress rose behind him.
Gale felt a cold shock run through his veins as he turned, abruptly ducking under one assassin and absently stabbing him, before scanning his surroundings. A flash of dark, braided hair. The gleam of a metal-tipped staff in the weak sunlight. There!
He pushed between two assassins, a feeling not unlike dread coiling in his belly. Gale couldn’t explain it, but he knew something was wrong. Eerie. The world didn’t feel right. Outside of Varos’ unusual silence and stillness and the sounds of battle.
Helene shouted, her rod swung, slamming into one of her opponent’s heads with a sharp enough crack that it echoed in the still air. The blow had to have been hard enough to vibrate up Helene’s arm, but she barely faltered, turning to face another opponent.
She didn’t notice the one creeping up behind her. The coward with focused dark eyes and a long, jagged dagger.
And Gale was too far away.
Gale growled, feeling his aether surge inside of him like a tidal wave. He darted forward, blade soundlessly ripping through the soft under belly of one assassin as he fought his way to Helene’s side. She was going down, falling, and he was too far away.
Blood splashed the dry dirt. Bright red. Too bright.
His blade flashed in the sunlight as he swung it again, slicing one assassin’s arm and elbowing another in the side of the face. The feeling of bone cracking did little to assuage Gale’s anger. Another slash of his blade and Gale had cleared a path.
He dropped down, half-skidding on the ground, to where Helene was lying, half-curled on her side. He could see her face, skin pale, blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth.
“Helene!”
He didn’t expect her to respond, not with the blood staining the front of her shirt and no doubt the back as well. She’d been stabbed from behind, her killer a coward.
Her pulse was faint, blood spilling from her wounds faster than normal. Gale wondered what poison that Special Ops was now coating their blades with. Her blood was too bright, too red.
He cupped her face, turning her face toward him, trying to get her to focus on him. “Helene?”
If she looked at him, he couldn’t tell. Her eyes were too unfocused. Her lips moved, but nothing emerged. No voice, no words. Her skin was deathly pale, she was still warm but no life moved in her. None at all. Gale couldn’t feel the slightest pulse, the faintest breath of magic.
She was gone.
Regret slammed into Gale, quickly joined by despair and then anger. Anger that burned and bloomed and grew until it surpassed fury and became wrath. His aether swirled and crashed inside of him, like a massive tsunami, pulling every bit of mana from his depths. It crackled around his body, shimmering like a heat mirage with deadly intent.
Gale clutched Helene’s body to him, already cooling, too late for him to even try to heal her with what meager skills he possessed in that arena. He had promised Sabriel! Without words and with them! He’d watch her! He’d protect her!
Grayshire always thought they could take, take, take. As if it was their right. Their justice to just steal things because they were rich and powerful and so much better. But they weren’t, they were just human. No better than the rest of them.
A growl echoed in Gale’s throat, his eyes flashing like green fire. Wrath flowed through him, brighter than fire, hotter and more consuming, blazing to life.
Aether pulsed from Gale’s form, a dazzling flash of pure power that radiated out from his body in all directions. It had the force of a physical blow, slamming into the assassins that had gathered around his kneeling form, just waiting for the chance to strike. Thin screams pierced the haze of his mind, the sound of bodies striking the surrounding vegetation, slamming into dead trunks. The rustle and snap of broken limbs, human and tree alike, and Gale’s fury, burning bright and bright.
Until pain replaced everything, his magic snapping into his body like a string of rubber wound too tight. It slammed back into place, locked tightly within his control, sending his mana raging like a sea-tossed storm. Gale gasped, hunching over, as agony ripped through his limbs, like a thousand stinging needles.
The poison in Varos!
His own magic pained him as though it were venom, burning him from the inside out. Gale gagged and struggled to draw in a breath, lights dancing on the edge of his vision. His grip on Helene tightened, and he distantly heard someone cry his name. She sounded like Quetz or Inari, his darling girls, left behind in safe Paragon.
Blackness encroached, erasing everything. The feel of the cooling body. The stabbing of pain through his innards. The shouts of battle. The smell of blood. The bitter taste of regret and being too slow, too late, too Tyr-be-damned late!
A strange chill cloaked Gale in that darkness. He felt oddly disconnected, apart from the world. His magic didn’t respond to his call. His tongue refused to lift, to form words.
“--ster Arlen! Master Arlen!”
Hands on his shoulders and Gale’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. Siobhan stood right in front of him, her eyes wild and concerned, rimmed with red. She looked frantic, her grip on his shoulders tight and clinging like a bird’s claw.
Gale couldn’t quite focus. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear her words. His aether scraped inside of him like touching a raw wound and he winced. He still held Helene, not that it would do either of them any good at the moment. She was gone.
“Siobhan…?”
“Something’s wrong with Master Kieran!” Siobhan blurted, and shook Gale again, as though trying to shake some alertness into the former noble.
Kieran…? Unfocused, Gale tried to look around. Of the Special Ops douzaine, he could see no one but scattered, fallen bodies dressed in black. Like painted stains on the dead ground, like the ash left behind by a Merihem.
He couldn’t see Kieran. He couldn’t see Ione? Where was Ione?
“Master Arlen!”
Siobhan sounded near tears and Gale looked at her again, feeling disoriented and weak, like he couldn’t concentrate. His muscles were sore as if he’d fought in ten battles today instead of just the two. The backlash from using his magic in Varos was nothing to sneeze at. It would have killed lesser users of the arts. If Gale hadn’t been bonded to Quetz and Inari, the backlash would have burned over and through him.
“Where is he?” Gale said, trying to stand and realizing, belatedly, that there was still a precious weight in his arms. Helene. He looked at her fallen form dumbly, as if the blackness had made him forget what had happened and why.
Siobhan’s face was ashen, streaked with blood, and she tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth. “He just collapsed. I… I don’t know why. And he won’t respond when I touch him or talk to him!” Her eyes fell, widening in shock. “Is… is that…?”
Gale nodded. “Will you take her?” he asked, his voice oddly hoarse. He felt disconnected and raw, torn apart from the inside. Something was clenching his lungs, coiling in his gut, but he had to keep moving. Something was wrong with Kieran. He couldn’t find Ione. They were surrounded by corpses and soon the smell and the fight would draw the Merihem.
Siobhan dropped to her knees, eyes shimmering behind her glasses. She and Helene were close, Siobhan looking up to the older woman like a dear sister. Grief made Siobhan pale as she took Helene from Gale, her hands stroking hair out of Helene’s face. She swallowed thickly.
“How is this possible?” Siobhan asked, barely a whisper.
Gale wondered the same thing himself. They were strong, stronger than any douzaine of the Special Ops. They were bonded. They were trained. How could Helene have fallen? Where was Ione?
Kieran…
Gale focused on the latter briefly. “Where’s Kieran?” he demanded, concern suddenly making his heart pound with agitation. He shot to his feet, worry bathing his body in a flush of cold chills as he swept the battlefield with his eyes.
Siobhan gestured with her head, clutching Helene close. It was easy enough to follow her line of sight to the crumpled form nearly hidden behind a thorny bush. Gale wasted no time, leaping over a few of the fallen to the scientist’s side.
Kieran was lying flat on his back. Siobhan must have at least done that for him. His face was deathly pale, his lips an unusual, pallid shade. He was breathing, but it was so shallow it might not have been present at all.
Gale leaned closer, feeling for a heartbeat. Finding one, faint and weak, but tangible. Kieran was alive. He gently felt with his aether, barely using magic at all, and bore the pain of it to see if Kieran’s magic would respond. There was a weak, hardly noticeable pulse. The same level of magic an average person would contain. Life magic, but nothing more.
There was no blood. No visible wound.
Gale’s hands, trained in basic healing arts, carefully checked Kieran for injuries. He found nothing. Until he happened to jog Kieran’s left arm and something fell from the scientist’s half-clenched fist. Something so small Gale wouldn’t have found it if Kieran hadn’t been holding onto it.
A dart. A very tiny, Special Ops assassination dart.
Gale plucked it from the dirt, holding it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, heart thudding in his chest. What poison could be in it? Had it struck Kieran? What toxins were swimming in Kieran’s veins?
His eyes fell back to Kieran, and finally noticed something he had missed before. Tilting the scientist’s head to the side, there was a small, red mark in Kieran’s neck. It better resembled a mosquito bite or something similar so Gale hadn’t paid much attention to it but now…
He looked closer. It was a puncture wound. Like that of a dart. The skin around it was already starting to darken to an angry, inflamed red. This was a Special Ops poison, but not one that Gale could recognize. Yet, there was no mistaking the truth; Kieran didn’t have much time.
They had to get out Varos and quickly, research be damned. Gale had to find Ione and they all had to hurry out of here before being attacked again. Before they lost another one. Telling Sabriel would be hard enough. Gale would sooner die than have to tell Azriel that he’d failed twice.
It would break him.
****
a/n: A bit of a cliffhanger, but I'll update as soon as I can. I'm editing as I go, which makes things a bit slow.
Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
Title: Whispers of Yesterday
Series: Infinity's End, Book Two
Description: Now firmly entrenched in the Theravada -- and firmly involved with Gale as well -- Ione discovers the hidden sides of both Grayshire and Theravada. She questions her own decisions -- and her feelings -- as the war takes on a more murderous, personal turn for the worst.
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21)
Chapter Seven
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Gale should have expected this. Should have anticipated that Grayshire would find a means to attack them at their most vulnerable. After all, the nobles hadn’t blinked at sending in a Brigade quintile to be sacrificed. Why would they care for the lives of a Special Ops douzaine?
It was unusual that the Special Ops would allow themselves to be noticed before. He wondered if it had something to do with the fact their leader seemed to know Ione. Had the douzaine been following them since they entered Varos? How had the douzaine known to find them here? Why? What was their purpose?
That much should have been obvious. Gale was the face of the Theravada, the one that Grayshire suspected of being the leader. Grayshire had no clue about Azriel, no idea that the real brains behind the rebels was one of their own, still underground.
“Somehow, I can’t see this as a coincidence,” Ione said frostily, and Gale was rather proud of her, though it was clear she was torn. The unmasked woman was obviously a friend of hers, perhaps from her Conservatory days.
She looked young, too young to be a douzaine leader. Either Grayshire was getting desperate, or she was really the cream of the crop.
The woman smiled broader and let loose a deep, throaty chuckle. “You always were sharp, Ione. Though I can’t seem to reconcile that with what’s going on here.” A gloved hand gestured vaguely to the rebels crowded behind Ione, a grey gaze landing briefly on Gale before returning to Ione. “Siding with traitors? I never took you for the sort.”
Her voice was pleasant, playful even, but her words were like weapons. Slicing sharp and deep, stabbing to the core.
“I’ve opened my eyes, Anisa,” Ione said, finally providing a name for the face. “Perhaps you should consider the same.” And for a moment, Ione’s hard edges softened by her regret, her reluctance to fight another familiar face. Gale had no doubts that another time and another battle were repeating themselves in the back of Ione’s mind – Faye and Iapetus Lake, and a moment Ione could never take back.
Tilting her head to the side, Anisa pressed a gloved finger to the corner of her mouth as though seriously considering Ione’s words. “You know that I can’t do that. We all have our duties, same as you once did. You’ve forgotten the vow you made, but I haven’t. I can’t let you walk away. Can you imagine how that would look to Commander Misae?”
Ione tensed, her aether wavering around her in uneasy ripples. “Anisa...”
The douzaine leader shrugged, spreading her hands flippantly. “These things just can’t be helped, can they?” she said, her word acting as calls to battle.
Gale felt the tide of the meeting shift, from casual to battle, and turned, drawing his blade to meet the oncoming attack of one of the Special Ops members. Blue eyes gleamed at him from a face completely concealed, barely flinching as a barrage of quick attacks by dagger rained down against Gale’s broad blade.
The douzaine attacked as one cohesive unit, and Gale could only focus on himself, his own safety. He trusted the others to take care of themselves, but he couldn’t shake a nagging concern that something wasn’t right with this situation. Did they truly have such terrible luck to stumble upon a Special Ops team in the middle of the Varos Flats? And did it have to be the team whose leader knew Ione personally?
Gale didn’t like the taste of so many coincidences.
His aether flared and Gale’s blade whipped through the air, dispatching one member of the douzaine before an attack could even be made. He fought to rein in his magic before it could venture far from his body, unwilling to tempt fate and invite misfortune. Gale had no desire to become a Merihem.
Gale ducked under a high kick from one assassin and whirled to avoid the lashing, fire-covered fist. His blade flashed, catching the high sun, as he slammed the flat of it against the first opponent’s back. The assassin stumbled away and Gale flung out his other hand on instinct, sending a burst of pure aether at the Special Ops’ chest.
The man, or woman perhaps since Gale couldn’t tell with the masks, grunted as the blow propelled him backward by several steps. But he wasn’t the only one. Gale, too, stumbled as a sharp stab of something tore from his chest, the minor use of his aether as powerful as though he’d called a tidal wave. He gasped for breath, feeling abruptly dizzy.
No wonder Kieran had said not to use magic here.
Trying to fight through a rising nausea, Gale firmly clamped his aether inside himself, and backpedaled to avoid the blade of another assassin. A dagger whistled dangerously close to his chest and Gale batted away the weapon with his sword, struggling to regain his equilibrium. His opponent pressed on, dark clothes concealing a lithe body that belonged to a woman perhaps. He lashed out with his sword, cutting a deep gouge in his opponent’s side as thorny brush grabbed at his clothes, nicking the well-spun threads.
Gale dodged another blow, moving quicker than the trained assassin, and struck, causing a deep, bloody wound in his opponent’s thigh. The Special Ops went down, giving Gale the first opportunity to draw breath and glance around, trying to find his companions.
Of Siobhan, he saw nothing but a blur as she ducked and dodged, weaving amid the members of the douzaine as though in the middle of a dance and not a battle for her life. Her glasses gleamed, a smile curling her painted lips as though thrilled. Such an incongruity that one, sharing a passion for both battle and science all in the same delicate, flirty form.
Kieran was calmly facing his opponents with a skill only one taught by Sabriel could accomplish. His short, blunt sword expertly fended off the assassins as he ducked and weaved between them, nearly copying his opponent’s moves exactly. Sabriel had been Special Ops, after all, and he’d passed much of his skills on to Kieran. Azriel would be so proud. It helped that Kieran was a master at hand to hand combat as well, Gale supposed.
Unsurprisingly, Ione and the douzaine’s leader had squared off with no other member of the team daring to interfere. The two women were trading blows, as though feeling each other out, fighting without blades and using only martial arts. Ione, much like Siobhan, was so graceful it was like watching a dance. While Anisa hit hard and heavy, like a man, but had the flexibility and elegance of a woman – a deadly combination.
And Helene…
Gale twisted to avoid an assassin’s attack, nearly losing sight of Helene in the onslaught. She had been surrounded by most of the douzaine, at least four, and her heavy swings were driving them back, but not down. Helene’s weapon wasn’t made to kill, not unless she struck a sufficiently strong blow to the head. And here in Varos, where to use her magic was a death sentence, she could at best defend. But these were the Special Ops. A mere blow to the shoulder or knee wouldn’t bring them down. They wouldn’t stop unless there was no life left in them.
Spinning, Gale slammed the hilt of his blade into one opponent’s jaw and kicked out at another, giving himself room to work. He cut down one assassin without a second glance and turned to another, wondering how much more were left. It was such a blur of fighting, of struggling to keep his aether locked inside of him where it threatened to bubble out. His mana wanted to flow, to be free, but Gale couldn’t let that happen.
Helene…
Slicing through one assassin who collapsed with a cry of pain, Gale turned, trying to catch sight of Sabriel’s special one. He’d promised after all.
There was a tide of dark-clothed bodies and Gale’s own companions dispersed amongst them. Blood already painted the dry ground of Varos a ghastly shade, though so far, the few fallen were the enemy.
It would have been so much easier if they could have used their magic. But then, such was in their favor as well because members of the Special Ops were just as trained in the Arts as the rest of them. The battle could have been worse.
Gale parried the stab of a jitte, blade screeching in the prongs at the hilt, and slammed a fist into his opponent’s face. Gale wasn’t as strong, physically, as someone like say Malcolm, but the blow wasn’t one to be ignored either. Something crunched beneath his knuckles and a garbled cry of pain emerged from behind the dark mask.
His opponent backpedaled, nose no doubt broken, as his grip on his jitte faltered. Gale untangled his sword from the weapon and pressed forward, cutting down the disoriented assassin before he could regain his balance.
A cry of distress rose behind him.
Gale felt a cold shock run through his veins as he turned, abruptly ducking under one assassin and absently stabbing him, before scanning his surroundings. A flash of dark, braided hair. The gleam of a metal-tipped staff in the weak sunlight. There!
He pushed between two assassins, a feeling not unlike dread coiling in his belly. Gale couldn’t explain it, but he knew something was wrong. Eerie. The world didn’t feel right. Outside of Varos’ unusual silence and stillness and the sounds of battle.
Helene shouted, her rod swung, slamming into one of her opponent’s heads with a sharp enough crack that it echoed in the still air. The blow had to have been hard enough to vibrate up Helene’s arm, but she barely faltered, turning to face another opponent.
She didn’t notice the one creeping up behind her. The coward with focused dark eyes and a long, jagged dagger.
And Gale was too far away.
Gale growled, feeling his aether surge inside of him like a tidal wave. He darted forward, blade soundlessly ripping through the soft under belly of one assassin as he fought his way to Helene’s side. She was going down, falling, and he was too far away.
Blood splashed the dry dirt. Bright red. Too bright.
His blade flashed in the sunlight as he swung it again, slicing one assassin’s arm and elbowing another in the side of the face. The feeling of bone cracking did little to assuage Gale’s anger. Another slash of his blade and Gale had cleared a path.
He dropped down, half-skidding on the ground, to where Helene was lying, half-curled on her side. He could see her face, skin pale, blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth.
“Helene!”
He didn’t expect her to respond, not with the blood staining the front of her shirt and no doubt the back as well. She’d been stabbed from behind, her killer a coward.
Her pulse was faint, blood spilling from her wounds faster than normal. Gale wondered what poison that Special Ops was now coating their blades with. Her blood was too bright, too red.
He cupped her face, turning her face toward him, trying to get her to focus on him. “Helene?”
If she looked at him, he couldn’t tell. Her eyes were too unfocused. Her lips moved, but nothing emerged. No voice, no words. Her skin was deathly pale, she was still warm but no life moved in her. None at all. Gale couldn’t feel the slightest pulse, the faintest breath of magic.
She was gone.
Regret slammed into Gale, quickly joined by despair and then anger. Anger that burned and bloomed and grew until it surpassed fury and became wrath. His aether swirled and crashed inside of him, like a massive tsunami, pulling every bit of mana from his depths. It crackled around his body, shimmering like a heat mirage with deadly intent.
Gale clutched Helene’s body to him, already cooling, too late for him to even try to heal her with what meager skills he possessed in that arena. He had promised Sabriel! Without words and with them! He’d watch her! He’d protect her!
Grayshire always thought they could take, take, take. As if it was their right. Their justice to just steal things because they were rich and powerful and so much better. But they weren’t, they were just human. No better than the rest of them.
A growl echoed in Gale’s throat, his eyes flashing like green fire. Wrath flowed through him, brighter than fire, hotter and more consuming, blazing to life.
Aether pulsed from Gale’s form, a dazzling flash of pure power that radiated out from his body in all directions. It had the force of a physical blow, slamming into the assassins that had gathered around his kneeling form, just waiting for the chance to strike. Thin screams pierced the haze of his mind, the sound of bodies striking the surrounding vegetation, slamming into dead trunks. The rustle and snap of broken limbs, human and tree alike, and Gale’s fury, burning bright and bright.
Until pain replaced everything, his magic snapping into his body like a string of rubber wound too tight. It slammed back into place, locked tightly within his control, sending his mana raging like a sea-tossed storm. Gale gasped, hunching over, as agony ripped through his limbs, like a thousand stinging needles.
The poison in Varos!
His own magic pained him as though it were venom, burning him from the inside out. Gale gagged and struggled to draw in a breath, lights dancing on the edge of his vision. His grip on Helene tightened, and he distantly heard someone cry his name. She sounded like Quetz or Inari, his darling girls, left behind in safe Paragon.
Blackness encroached, erasing everything. The feel of the cooling body. The stabbing of pain through his innards. The shouts of battle. The smell of blood. The bitter taste of regret and being too slow, too late, too Tyr-be-damned late!
A strange chill cloaked Gale in that darkness. He felt oddly disconnected, apart from the world. His magic didn’t respond to his call. His tongue refused to lift, to form words.
“--ster Arlen! Master Arlen!”
Hands on his shoulders and Gale’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. Siobhan stood right in front of him, her eyes wild and concerned, rimmed with red. She looked frantic, her grip on his shoulders tight and clinging like a bird’s claw.
Gale couldn’t quite focus. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear her words. His aether scraped inside of him like touching a raw wound and he winced. He still held Helene, not that it would do either of them any good at the moment. She was gone.
“Siobhan…?”
“Something’s wrong with Master Kieran!” Siobhan blurted, and shook Gale again, as though trying to shake some alertness into the former noble.
Kieran…? Unfocused, Gale tried to look around. Of the Special Ops douzaine, he could see no one but scattered, fallen bodies dressed in black. Like painted stains on the dead ground, like the ash left behind by a Merihem.
He couldn’t see Kieran. He couldn’t see Ione? Where was Ione?
“Master Arlen!”
Siobhan sounded near tears and Gale looked at her again, feeling disoriented and weak, like he couldn’t concentrate. His muscles were sore as if he’d fought in ten battles today instead of just the two. The backlash from using his magic in Varos was nothing to sneeze at. It would have killed lesser users of the arts. If Gale hadn’t been bonded to Quetz and Inari, the backlash would have burned over and through him.
“Where is he?” Gale said, trying to stand and realizing, belatedly, that there was still a precious weight in his arms. Helene. He looked at her fallen form dumbly, as if the blackness had made him forget what had happened and why.
Siobhan’s face was ashen, streaked with blood, and she tugged on her bottom lip with her teeth. “He just collapsed. I… I don’t know why. And he won’t respond when I touch him or talk to him!” Her eyes fell, widening in shock. “Is… is that…?”
Gale nodded. “Will you take her?” he asked, his voice oddly hoarse. He felt disconnected and raw, torn apart from the inside. Something was clenching his lungs, coiling in his gut, but he had to keep moving. Something was wrong with Kieran. He couldn’t find Ione. They were surrounded by corpses and soon the smell and the fight would draw the Merihem.
Siobhan dropped to her knees, eyes shimmering behind her glasses. She and Helene were close, Siobhan looking up to the older woman like a dear sister. Grief made Siobhan pale as she took Helene from Gale, her hands stroking hair out of Helene’s face. She swallowed thickly.
“How is this possible?” Siobhan asked, barely a whisper.
Gale wondered the same thing himself. They were strong, stronger than any douzaine of the Special Ops. They were bonded. They were trained. How could Helene have fallen? Where was Ione?
Kieran…
Gale focused on the latter briefly. “Where’s Kieran?” he demanded, concern suddenly making his heart pound with agitation. He shot to his feet, worry bathing his body in a flush of cold chills as he swept the battlefield with his eyes.
Siobhan gestured with her head, clutching Helene close. It was easy enough to follow her line of sight to the crumpled form nearly hidden behind a thorny bush. Gale wasted no time, leaping over a few of the fallen to the scientist’s side.
Kieran was lying flat on his back. Siobhan must have at least done that for him. His face was deathly pale, his lips an unusual, pallid shade. He was breathing, but it was so shallow it might not have been present at all.
Gale leaned closer, feeling for a heartbeat. Finding one, faint and weak, but tangible. Kieran was alive. He gently felt with his aether, barely using magic at all, and bore the pain of it to see if Kieran’s magic would respond. There was a weak, hardly noticeable pulse. The same level of magic an average person would contain. Life magic, but nothing more.
There was no blood. No visible wound.
Gale’s hands, trained in basic healing arts, carefully checked Kieran for injuries. He found nothing. Until he happened to jog Kieran’s left arm and something fell from the scientist’s half-clenched fist. Something so small Gale wouldn’t have found it if Kieran hadn’t been holding onto it.
A dart. A very tiny, Special Ops assassination dart.
Gale plucked it from the dirt, holding it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, heart thudding in his chest. What poison could be in it? Had it struck Kieran? What toxins were swimming in Kieran’s veins?
His eyes fell back to Kieran, and finally noticed something he had missed before. Tilting the scientist’s head to the side, there was a small, red mark in Kieran’s neck. It better resembled a mosquito bite or something similar so Gale hadn’t paid much attention to it but now…
He looked closer. It was a puncture wound. Like that of a dart. The skin around it was already starting to darken to an angry, inflamed red. This was a Special Ops poison, but not one that Gale could recognize. Yet, there was no mistaking the truth; Kieran didn’t have much time.
They had to get out Varos and quickly, research be damned. Gale had to find Ione and they all had to hurry out of here before being attacked again. Before they lost another one. Telling Sabriel would be hard enough. Gale would sooner die than have to tell Azriel that he’d failed twice.
It would break him.
a/n: A bit of a cliffhanger, but I'll update as soon as I can. I'm editing as I go, which makes things a bit slow.
Feedback is always welcome and appreciated.
