Aethersmith (Book 2) (47 page)

Chapter 27 - Lone Warlock

Iridan navigated the back streets of Munne by aether-sight.
The spring rains had let up sometime after midnight, leaving every surface wet,
and a light fog hanging amid the stone buildings, but the skies had not
cleared. There was scant light to avoid tripping by, and he was not foolish
enough to create any for himself.

He was playing a game of hide-from-his-lordship with
Megrenn’s occupation forces, but during the nighttime hours, he was not the one
who hid. Three nights running, he had hunted them, leaving corpses and
fire-gutted buildings in his wake. It might take him half a season to cleanse
the city of enemy troops, but he was determined to see it through.

He peered around an ivy-covered wall, using its scraggly
Source to help conceal his own. There was a patrol on foot, a dozen infantry
with one especially strong Source among them, which seemed like as not to be a
sorcerer.

“It seems they are looking for me,” Iridan muttered aloud, a
habit that was growing the longer he spent alone. Folk who were intent on his demise
made for poor conversation, and he could not abide the prolonged silences when
he was alone. “Whether they mean to confront me or avoid me, it seems they have
not noticed me.” The newly regrown teeth felt strange in his mouth, but at
least he could speak normally again.

Iridan began drawing aether very slowly. It was a simple
trick, drawing just enough to offset the aether a Source gave off. It was not
enough to appear invisible in the aether, but it made it much easier to hide a
strong Source among weaker ones. For his sword, there was not much he could do,
save hope that his adversaries were less vigilant; Dragon’s Whisper showed up
clearly in the aether, and he had not the talent in illusion to hide that.

The patrol was heading away from him, so Iridan slipped from
behind his cover, blade drawn and held in one hand. His boots scraped on the
cobbled roads, and made tiny, wet, sucking splashes where he stepped in the
ubiquitous shallow puddles. The soldiers in the patrol were conversing among
themselves, however, and were wearing metal armor. The noise Iridan made was
drowned out. Iridan quickened his step, knowing it was only a matter of time
before—

There was a shout, something in Megrenn that Iridan
understood by context, and not by vocabulary. The soldiers turned, swords
drawn. Iridan could only tell the latter by their stance, using aether-vision
as he was. The patrol, rather than taking up a defensive stance or launching an
attack, rushed sidelong, spreading out to either side as if to contain Iridan’s
escape.

“As if I planned to run,” Iridan said, muttering to himself
as he launched a spread of fiery darts at the Megrenn soldiers.

“Fire and steel, those are what you kill with. All else is
vanity,” Rashan had instructed him. “Strike to wound, to maim. Obliterating
foes wastes aether. Conserve for your defenses.” The lessons had been sinking
in now that he had worn himself down over the course of his nightly raids, body
and Source alike.

 Many of the darts struck home. A few hit metal armor to
little effect, but most caught cloak, hair, or skin. Men screamed, dropping to
the wet ground for relief from the fires.

A pair of Iridan’s magical projectiles had struck a
shielding spell that had not been active when the attack was launched. The
sorcerer among the Megrenn patrol had quick reflexes with his magic. Less
concerned about the common soldiers, Iridan was about to launch a more focused
attack on the sorcerer when he saw a blade spring to life in the aether.

Iridan switched his vision back to the light, seeing through
the gap in the fog that his use of fire magic had created. It was still dark,
but there was enough light from the burning men to get a view of his opponent.
The man wore blue and gold. By his dark skin, he was Safschan. The blade that
had drawn Iridan’s attention enough to warrant a look in the light was a
rune-blade—which meant his opponent was a blade-priest.

The blade-priest called out to Iridan. There were several
foreign words, which Iridan’s education failed to identify as either Megrenn or
Safschan, but the last was a name: “Rashan.” Iridan cocked his head to the
side, confused. The blade-priest must have realized Iridan had not understood
him, for he tried again in thickly accented Kadrin.

“I am honored by fighting you, Warlock Rashan,” the
blade-priest said, repeating his greeting.

Iridan shook his head. The blade-priest stiffened,
straightening from the ready stance he had eased into after making his
challenge. It seemed that Iridan had offended him. Some small, strange,
misguided part of Iridan’s mind could not allow him to cross blades with the
misunderstanding hanging between them.

“I am Warlock Iridan Solaran. Rashan is my father,” Iridan
said by way of clarification.

The blade-priest’s expression turned sour. “Then I will kill
you instead, unworthy spawn of evil. I am Souka, and I will wash my blade in
your blood,” the blade-priest said, readying himself once more.

The soldiers who had survived Iridan’s initial attack made
no move to intervene. They had been bait for a trap, but had not caught the
quarry they thought they were after.

With no further preamble, the blade-priest Souka charged
Iridan. Souka held his rune-blade with a greatsword grip, both hands at the end
of the elongated handle spaced just a bit apart. Iridan watched his opponent
change from a fire-shadowed form obscured by fog to a distinctive blue-white
Source wielding a blade that shone brightly as he switched back to the aether
to ready himself for combat.

There was a temptation to unleash an aether blast, and see
if he could end the fight at once, but Iridan reined in the thought. Tightening
his grip on Dragon’s Whisper, he strengthened his shielding spell, and prepared
to meet the charge head-on. Souka’s blade hit like thunder against Iridan’s
parry, sending a jolt through Iridan’s arms. In the aether, he saw that the
Safschan had put a bit of aether through his muscles just before the blades
collided. If not for the magically enhanced speed behind his own sword, Iridan
never would have generated enough power to stop the stronger fighter’s initial
attack.

There was no respite for Iridan to digest this information,
and formulate a strategy. Souka’s second slash followed close behind, forcing
Iridan to retreat a step as he parried a somewhat less forceful blow, and deflected
it wide. The blade-priest slid one hand up the hilt of his sword as he stepped
in to follow Iridan’s retreat, reversing the momentum of his weapon faster than
Iridan had anticipated. Iridan felt the impact as his shield took a brutal
strike that would have bisected his chest had he been wearing armor of steel
instead of pure aether.

Thoughts of feeling out his opponent, and husbanding his
aether flew from his mind like leaves before a gale. Instinct took over, and
Iridan’s aether bolt lifted the blade-priest from his feet, and deposited him
supine on the cobblestones some dozen paces distant. Iridan took a moment to
catch his breath, and renew his shielding spell as he walked over to where
Souka had fallen. Iridan had seen the blade-priest’s shielding spell fail when
he hit the ground after it had done all it could just stopping Iridan’s spell
from killing him instantly.

With admirable willpower, the wounded Souka drew himself to
his feet, using his blade as a crutch, before Iridan arrived. He still held the
sword in a ready grip, but Iridan could see that he was merely preparing to
give a last accounting of himself before he was defeated.

“You will die with a clean blade, my friend,” Iridan told
him, stopping just outside his reach.

The blade-priest was probably glaring lightning at him, but
it was a hard thing to discern just by aether. He watched as Souka gathered a
bit of aether using a draw that would not have gotten him past most of the
fifteen-summer students on Ranking Day at the Imperial Academy. There was no
reappearance of a shielding spell around him, though; the aether flowed to arms
and legs.

Having seen the blade-priest’s preparation so clearly in the
aether, Iridan was not surprised when Souka leapt at him, taking one last
desperate shot at killing him. Iridan suspected his shielding spell could turn
the blow aside even if he missed the parry entirely, but he had crossed blades
once already, and lost to the superior swordsman. Iridan’s second aether bolt
caught Souka mid leap, and hurled him against the stone wall of a nearby tavern
with a crunch that had a note of finality to it.

The soldiers who had been watching the encounter saw that it
was ended, and turned to flee. Iridan sent darts of flame after them, killing
all but a pair, whom he did not bother pursuing. Instead he stalked over to
examine the body of his adversary. Close examination was not needed to know the
man was dead, but Iridan felt better having a look in the light to make
certain.

Blood smeared the tavern wall, a place called The Happy Hog
by its sign, though it had seen happier times to be sure. The body of Souka lay
crumpled in the small herb garden that was adjacent to the tavern, surrounded
by a shin-high brick retaining wall. The rune-blade lay just at the base of the
wall, in the road, as blood from its former owner ran down the overflowing
garden wall to soil it.

“I suppose it does not count if it is your blood, does it?”
Iridan asked the corpse.

He regarded Souka’s weapon for a moment, noting the
exquisite workmanship, the detailed etching of runes and decorative scrollwork,
the gems inlaid in the small cross-guard and pommel. The half-blade,
half-handle weapon was versatile in the hands of a master, but it took many
summers to gain proficiency. Even if Iridan had no better weapon—and he felt
that he did—he knew no one who would be of any use with it.

Dragon’s Whisper came down in a whistling blur, smashing
against the rune-blade and into the cobblestones beneath it. The blade did not
shatter, but it was bent beyond use, ruined.

Iridan slipped back to aether-vision, and scanned the area
for signs of nearby foes, then set off, no particular destination in mind.

* * * * * * * *

With the rush of adrenaline from the battle worn off, Iridan
noticed that the blade-priest’s blow had told. It hurt to take a deep breath,
likely due to a cracked rib. It was yet another in a long series of minor hurts
he had suffered, worse than the ache of an overused Source or a turned ankle,
but not as bad as Juliana knocking his teeth out. The latter still rankled him.

“Some warlock I am, not even master over my own bed,” Iridan
said to himself. He was getting stronger, he knew. His instincts were being
retrained to fight rather than flee or cower. There was no Brannis to save him,
as there had been most of his life.

He ran his tongue over his new teeth, feeling the odd
contours and unfamiliar shape of them in his mouth. He had grown them in too
quickly, not taking the time to do a proper job of it. When he was done freeing
Munne, barring another pressing task, he would see to reshaping them a bit
until they felt right. It was an unmanly hobby, reshaping the body for
aesthetic reasons, but he could find plenty of sorceresses who could advise him
on it. Brannis’s sister Aloisha—his cousin or niece or something, he
supposed—was part of the Inner Circle, and could likely be trusted for some
discretion on the matter. Her beauty was rather unlikely to all be natural. The
thought of asking Juliana was out of the question twofold. Not only was she
responsible for the ill-fitting teeth in the first place, but she seemed not to
practice such magic herself. Surely that color hair was her own doing, but her
mother had probably straightened her teeth as a girl, and she was sorely
lacking in womanly curves. Iridan did not know if he had the courage to suggest
she do something about the latter, else he might be starting over on another
new set of teeth.

Wandering the foggy streets of Munne as he mused, he was
startled from his reflections by the gathering of Sources in the area. He had
been learning to ignore the unmoving, horizontal forms of the sleeping
citizenry that he could make out within the buildings he passed, but the ones
he noted now were approaching. They were spread out over a wide area, closing
some sort of search pattern, not quite converging on his location, but aware
that he had to be somewhere within.

“I should have chased down the survivors,” Iridan said,
cursing himself for laziness.

While he had planned to continue his killings, he greatly
preferred striking from ambush. Not only was it safer, but it was much more
efficient at eliminating large numbers of Megrenn troops quickly. He scanned
about for stronger Sources among the searchers to see if they had any sorcerers
or blade-priests among them. He also looked for large Sources that would
indicate they had gone back to trying stripe-cats against him. He suspected
not, since he had hardly seen any since his first night of raiding. The beasts
were outrageously expensive to be thrown at Iridan to their near-certain
demise—and by the winds did those things have a lot of blood in them!

There were indeed strong Sources to be found among those
intent on surrounding him, three in fact. A fourth was borderline, either just
an unusually aether-strong soldier or a weakling sorcerer. Iridan picked one of
the strong ones at random, and quickened his pace, heading straight for it. It
would be best for him to engage them before there was a chance for the strong
ones to join forces against him.

A cry went up as Iridan’s hellfire spell crashed into his
chosen target and everything within a dozen paces of it. Those not consumed by
flames shouted things Iridan could not understand. After a moment’s confusion,
he could see that the rest of the searchers had begun closing on his location.
A scattering of dead Sources remained where his spell had hit, save for one
that shone with the light of a shielding spell, and appeared to be stumbling
around, either dazed or choking on the smoke from the corpses and two buildings
that had been engulfed in the conflagration.