Chains of Loss (6 page)

Kharrix nodded.  “As what it was.  Worth has many meanings, yes?  As what it is now, who would want it most?”

“If it’s just a scrapped relic…”  James trailed off.  He’d been focusing on the idea that denying it to the Overarchy would be their most effective course of action, but  Kharrix’s question had opened up a line of thought that he’d written off years ago.

“Falden.  Cloudshadow’s always buying relics.  Even tiny ones.  This could be a good bargaining chip.  If it's useful or recognizable, there are humans who would do anything for such an artifact.  This could be it.”  James found himself grinning.  “Yeah, this could really be it!  This could make the perfect opening offer up north.  If there's anything to it, anything even resembling ancient technology, we could use it.”

Kharrix twitched appreciatively.  “We should try, then.  Yes, try.  Who can we send?”

James looked over the figures on the map.  “Nobody there has enough to guarantee a capture...and only Amanda and I have seen tech artifacts before...damn.  Amanda's busy with Lethis.  The Reaver’s probably near Gansala.  He’ll be checking it out.  This isn’t going to be easy, but it's worth doing.”  He traced some lines with his fingers, trying to do the math.  “Send out a semaphore for Amanda.  She can probably make it in three to five days after she's done.  I’ll take seventy rangers from the Redmere area and three dozen fighters from upland and rendezvous with her south of Gansala in six days.  Make sure that our spies have enough intel to describe it when I arrive and we'll make a decision on how to proceed.  Worst case scenario – it's useless and we'll do some extra raiding while they're playing with it.”

Kharrix cocked his head in the orcish affirmative and removed all pieces that they had just discussed from the map.  “Who next, then?”

“Sekosi.”

As Kharrix placed the appropriate pieces, James knocked once on the tent's hard leather flap.  A young orc, scales still yellow, hopped in moments later for his own orders.  James would deal with the fallen star, but there was far more to deal with. 

Kharrix flinched, dropping Sekosi’s guerilla squadron in the middle of Basin Lake.  James had his weapons clear and was in a ready stance before his friend could wave him down. 

“No…no threat, friend,” the old orc said.

“What is it?”

Kharrix pointed south.  “It sings once more.”

***

Thursday, October 27, 3481.

Time: Early morning. 

Location: Wilderness, claimed by Overarchy. South of Worldsedge.

As soon as Derek was asleep, Mycah opened up the backpack that Sheralys had given her.  The first item her hand found was an oilcloth bag containing a small, sectioned glass tube.  She felt it carefully in the dark and gave it a small twist.  Vents in the side uncovered and the substance inside started to glow in a soft green light.  The device had a handle that shielded it, focusing the light in a single direction.

She contemplated the light for a moment, focusing her anger on the prophet.  Sheralys had found her within an hour of her arriving at home, offered her dinner, and then shoved her off on this quest.  She sighed.  Nothing else to do about it.

The next object she pulled forth was a tightly-wrapped scroll.  She unwrapped it and brought the light near it.  Her scowl turned to a grin as she saw it was a map.  Most of the territory was only vaguely familiar; some of it she had seen long ago on her father's charts.  It showed a wide swath of territory to the south of the human lands. 

The map had about a dozen runes stamped on it with the taerlae character for supplies.  There was also a small X at the bottom of the map.  She looked at the key and scowled.

“X:  When Mycah first reads this map, her current location is here.”

She rolled the map and set it aside in disgust.  She kept her voice to a whisper, but couldn’t hold it in.  “Sheralys, you Vhaestora show-off!”  The map would still be useful, but she didn’t want to look at it right now.  She'd go through the rest of her gear first.

She went back to the pack.  The majority of it was filled with supplies—mostly trail bars made from grains, diced meats and fruits, fried, compressed and sealed in wax.  There were also several lengths of twine, and a few small metal bars; bartering supplies, perhaps?  She also found a full water skin.  It wasn't very big.  Between her and her companion, they'd have to refill it at least once per day. 

A small cask held powder that looked black in the pale light.  She wasn't sure, but she suspected it to be gunpowder.  She almost threw it away, but considered that, annoying as it was, Sheralys
did
know the future, and if she'd packed gunpowder, it was probably because Mycah would
need
gunpowder.

The last thing inside was a tightly-wrapped cotton pad with something hard inside.  The pad untied easily and unwrapped in moments, revealing three crystalline vials that appeared black in the green light.  Mycah slowly swallowed and carefully rewrapped them.  Three bloodvials.  A single bloodvial was worth a medium-sized house in Kaitopolis or a week's care from a House-trained doctor, and required an alchemist or sorcerer to drain most of a donor's life force to create.  It left the donor feeble for weeks, but the resulting suspension delivered a month's worth of life force in a single concentrated dose.

More than once, her father had credited a timely bloodvial with his survival in an adventure. They were hazardous, though, and best saved for a critical situation.  Mycah turned back to the map. 

They were dangerously far south.  They were not near the crags; they were so far south that the crags didn't appear on the map.  According to the scale, they were at least three days' travel south of the Worldsedge Escarpment.  If they managed to get down from there, it was another eight hundred kilometers to the southern edges of Coalition territory, and the map didn't even extend that far. 

She touched the symbol of Redmere, nearly the northernmost point on the map.  The first city to fall, sometimes said to have been the greatest city, lost in the first year of the war.  Her father had been born there.  She fought down the feeling and continued her survey.

The Worldsedge was a problem.  There was an orcish city above the lone marked pass.  They would have to get through in order to make it home, unless they were supposed to climb down the escarpment.  Even then, the map wasn't enough to get them home, just to the edges of orc territory.

Her good mood was entirely gone.  It was almost ludicrously bad.  About the best thing she could say was that they were unlikely to have Chimera trouble.  There was no way they would make it to the northern cities by winter—was there even winter this far south?  She briefly considered trying to ride a river down the escarpment, then rejected the idea.  Even for her, that would be suicide.

She twisted the tube again and the light faded away.  No point in playing with the map right now.  Instead, she hefted the waterskin and uncorked it.  The odor gave her pause; it was far stronger than she'd ever encountered it, but unmistakable.  She reached in a finger. 
Hello?

[Sister.  Is time yet?]

Time for what?

[Is not time.  You will know.]

Need anything?

[Rest now.  No more.]

Mycah corked the waterskin and put her face in her hands.  Sheralys had somehow concentrated a waushan down to tiny size and stuffed it into a waterskin.  She'd never even imagined such a thing.  How had Sheralys managed to convince it to comply?  She allowed the thoughts to occupy her as she continued the watch for the rest of the night.  It was more pleasant than thinking about Derek.

***

Thursday, October 27, 3481.

Time: Morning. 

Location: Keiths Manor.  City of Kaitopolis.

“Watch sta-TUS!”

“All clear, sir!”

“Carry on, soldier.”

Captain Ricardo’s hands had been busy as he spoke.  Anyone listening would probably have missed the exchange of hand signals that confirmed that the watch was indeed at regular status and that he was not under duress.  He was in charge of the compound's security for several reasons, and the least one was not his expertise. 

Most people knew the compound as the Keith Manor.  Few truly knew how secure it really was.  Every guard here had agreed to serve at the compound for the rest of their lives in one capacity or another.  Every entrance and exit had at least three guards; every window was both warded and reinforced with steel bars.  Even the chimneys held at least three potentially lethal traps each.  The most secure chambers—right across from the bedrooms—had only one entrance and were built of solid stone.

One of those chambers—the study—was his destination now.  He knocked on Lord Michael's door and waited a moment for a response.

“What?”

“Morning reports.”

“Have they found Lady Orion?”

“Sorry.”

“Then leave them for Styx.”

Ricardo paused.  There was strain in the young lord's voice.  He tested the air and caught the odor of burning flesh.

“Mike?”

“Go away.”

He pushed his way in.  The study was as meticulously arranged as always.  Stone shelves of ancient books and recent reproductions lined the walls and a massive desk dominated the center of the room.  The fireplace occupying the north wall had solid metal gates to help prevent the flames from escaping.  Lord Michael's hands were clamped down on the edge of the gates.

“Michael, please!  Not again!”

“Go away.”

“Hell with that!” Closer to his liege he could hear a faint sizzling as Michael's hands cooked.  “
MICHAEL. 
What are you
doing?
”

“Penance.”

Ricardo grabbed his friend's wrists and tugged.  The burned hands had fused to the metal.  He placed his left hand on the gate, searing it as he used his right to pry Michael off.  He could see bone sticking out of the roasted flesh.

“Dammit, whatever happened isn't worth this.  You can't do this to yourself!”

Michael allowed himself to be guided to the desk and sank his hands into a waiting pan of water.  “The record will show that I can, Rick.”

Ricardo only barely kept himself from hitting the man he was sworn to protect.  A steady undercurrent of curses streamed out of him.  “You're not supposed to be the crazy one here.  That's Styx.”

“Styx doesn't care.  That's how he's crazy.  He has no heart.  No soul.  I'm the one that cares.  Even if it hurts.  Especially when it hurts.”

“Nothing is worth this!  What could possibly have happened that would be worth doing that to yourself?”  He gestured towards the pan.  A knucklebone had fallen out of the remains of a finger; the associated fingertip was floating straight upwards, flat against the rest of the finger.

“People depend on me.”

“Damn straight.  You're dependable.”

“I failed.”

“How?”

Ricardo followed his friend's gaze to a letter on the desk.  It had a broken seal that designated it as a document of the highest level of secrecy.  He read the first paragraph and swore, throwing the letter down.  A battle seraph had been overpowered by a common thug.  She had been raped.

“You see?  It's my fault,” Lord Michael said calmly.

“How is that your fault, Mike?”

“I made the battle seraphs.  I took her.  I changed her.  I took her and I gave her wings.  I made her light and sleek and gave her a kind of beauty that most can only dream of.  I gave her the sky.  And I took away her strength.  I left her vulnerable.”

The young lord closed his eyes and recited from memory.  “Seraph 47.  Corporal Reynolds.  Lydia.  Accomplished archer.  Placed sixth in her weight class for unarmed combat.  Transformed six months and eight days ago.  Graduated from the aerie last week, officially ready to serve the city as a battle seraph.  Scheduled to receive her first assignment tomorrow.”

Michael suddenly raised his hands, then swung them down with terrible force.  The desk shuddered and the bowl warped as his ruined hands flattened it, spilling the water everywhere.  His lost knucklebone bounced across the floor as he started to rant, his voice building into a crescendo. 

“We knew they're vulnerable on the ground.  They can fly, they stay out of trouble, they don't get into harm's way!  They don't deal with melee combat because they're supposed to fucking fly!  That's how they stay safe from enemy soldiers!  How did I forget that I had to protect them from my own people!”

He collapsed in his chair, the rage suddenly bled out of him.  He murmured to himself.  Ricardo leaned in close to hear.

“...poison claw...maybe two...talons...damn.”

Michael fell silent, breathing slowly and deeply. 

“We can fix this, Michael.”

“No, we can't.”  The young lord opened his eyes and met his bodyguard's gaze.  “No, we can only make sure it doesn't happen again.  Not the same as fixing it.  Styx will fix it.  It's what he does.”  His gaze grew distant.  “The Hands are already looking.  It won't be long.” 

He looked down at his ruined hands.  “These, we can fix.  Lydia, though?  We can never fix her.”