Gemworld (24 page)

The young amethyst who had snatched Jaren out of the air, reached out to his soulgem in response. His eyes flashed brilliantly for a moment as he scanned the hill, then dimmed. “There’s enemy troops there and there,” he indicated high on the ridge. “Lower than that, and the hill becomes too dense. I can’t see a thing.”

“Good enough,” Retzu nodded confidently. Having scouted out the area weeks before Caravan’s move there, Retzu was familiar with all the ridge’s nooks and crannies, so he knew exactly where the amethyst had indicated. He swiftly laid out the topography of the ridge for the others, stressing vantage points and hollows, noting where the other troops would be and the best way to get to them.

“You four are with me,” he said, indicating three of his commanders and a wicked-eyed ruby. “You four with Menkal. Keth and Senosh, you’re with Jaren. Remember, kill by stealth if possible. One cry of warning and the game is up.” Then, with a grim nod, he dismissed the group to their various assignments.

Senosh mounted the ridge swiftly, followed by Keth with Jaren bringing up the rear. The trio parted the underbrush with the ease of men used to living in the sanctuary of the deep forest. They barely made a sound as they pushed aside the thorny vines and brambles native to that part of the Vale, gliding silently over fallen leaves on their trek to the summit. What sound they did make was little more than a whisper, more than lost in the din of the battle before them. Once at the top, they were able to look out from behind the thick trunks of the area’s native trees, hidden from unfriendly eyes as they surveyed their targets below them.

The first entrenchment was about twenty yards down the slope. Five invaders—mages obviously, for they carried no weapons—hunkered down in a bowl shaped hollow, peeking over the lip every so often, looking for a shot. Spying a likely target, one of them hurled a magic bolt at an unsuspecting defender, then ducked back down. A moment later, one of his fellows did the same.

“The span is too great,” Jaren whispered. “They’ll spy us out before we even reach them, to say nothing of killing them quietly. We’ll have to take care of them from here.” He turned his attention back to the enemy quintet, and gathered the mana necessary to wield at the enemy mages from so far away.

“
You
may have to,” Keth said. Before Jaren could respond, the granite melted into the ground with a ripple.

“I can see controlling him will be a problem,” Senosh commented, his ruby eyes burning ominously. Jaren could only nod. Keth had limitless potential, but he would need to rein in his impulsive nature if he expected to live long enough to reach that potential.

Emerald and ruby eyes watched the hollow, not knowing what to expect from the young granite. Suddenly, two of the invaders stiffened, their mouths thrown wide in frozen screams. Jaren watched in horror as death—that’s the only way he could describe the blooming grey aura—hatched in the bodies of the mages. Starting at the small of the back, Jaren watched the spell spread throughout the body of each victim, completely unnoticed by the other invaders.

The death bloom thickened as it spread, encompassing the mages entirely. The aura gave one last burst of energy, and the bodies took on the consistency of cornstarch, crumbling to dust around two hands jutting from the ground.

The hands slid back into the ground with a ripple, just as the nearest invader turned to consult his fellows. His face twisted in shock and horror as he found only the ashen remains of his comrades.

He might have shouted a warning, but it died on his lips as a hand thrust from the ground, closing on his windpipe. Jaren watched again as grey death spread outward from the granite’s touch.

Galvanized by the sight, Jaren turned his attention to the next invader. Seeing the health of the man, the emerald altered it, shutting the man’s nervous system down. The distance between them caused the mana to run sluggishly, so the dying mage had more than ample time to slap numbly at his remaining colleague, vainly trying to warn him. Not that it would have mattered. His neighbor collapsed right next to him, the victim of heat stroke, courtesy of Senosh.

That was the way of it. The trio quietly made their way from hollow to hollow, entrenchment to entrenchment, dispatching the enemies they found there. Occasionally, they would peek out from cover and catch sight of one of the other groups going about their own work. Jaren even managed a glimpse of Retzu, silently employing the deadly arts for which he was so well known, and so feared. Gradually they began to notice the marked decrease in unfriendly fire. The attacks against the villagers grew less effective, more sporadic. Absently, Jaren was reminded of the last kernels of corn, popping in a kettle.

The remaining villagers noticed as well. Boldly, the first wave of defenders charged the hill. Some fell, cut down in a desperate hail of magic. Those who survived the crossfire stormed lower lying bunkers, overthrowing the current occupants and claiming the hollows as their own. Gaining a foothold, they charged the next enemy position, and the next, driving further and further uphill. Jaren, Senosh, and Keth continued downhill, further weakening the remaining Earthen Rank forces.

All at once the tide broke, and the invaders became defenders themselves. Deprived of their support mages, the invaders fell. No longer in need of stealth, the trio joined the attack, lustily slaughtering invaders at will.

By dusk, it was all over.

“Apology accepted, centurion,” the Highest said pleasantly, stooping low to look full into the emerald’s gemstone eyes as they dimmed. The mage’s jaws worked soundlessly for a moment longer, vainly trying to drawn breath, before they ceased their movement entirely.

The Highest stood back up to admire his handiwork. The corpse lay flat on its back, legs skewed to one side where the centurion had dropped to his knees before capsizing altogether. A leather cuirass bearing the insignia of the Emerald Rank clung to the body in gore drenched tatters. Gleaming rib fragments jutted out of the cuirass at odd angles where the jagged points had lodged in the leather.

A massive hole gaped in the center of the cuirass. Beneath it, one might expect to find the emerald’s chest, battered and torn admittedly, but otherwise recognizable. Instead, the Highest found the pink inner lining of the emerald’s lungs, laid open like an exploded lighter-than-air device.

“Balloon,” he reminded himself, turning the age yellowed word over in his mouth. He chuckled a bit as the cooling corpse’s diaphragm twitched involuntarily, still reflexively trying to fill the ruptured lungs.

How he loved this method of killing. It was simplicity itself to grip the darkness within a victim’s lungs, expanding it until the chest exploded outward. It killed quickly and surely—but not so quickly that the victim couldn’t look down upon his gaping chest and see his own innards before he died. And those last few seconds of insane terror before the final darkness... A tremor of pleasure rippled through the Highest’s being at the thought of the emerald’s torture.

“Nestor,” he said softly, finally turning away from the corpse.

The brown-cloaked granite snapped to attention at the mention of his name. “Yes, Highest?” the voice came from beneath the cowl.

The obsidian smiled his approval of the guard. He liked Nestor. He was a good man and a loyal servant, ever going above and beyond the call of duty for the sake of his lord’s favor. He well deserved the Highest’s remembrance, the honor of being called by name.

“I grow weary of this rebel infestation,” he said. “They’ve just cost me a seasoned battle group, suffering only negligible losses themselves. It’s high time that they were dealt with.”

“Understood, Sire. Your orders?”

“I have plans for these rebels, but they cannot come to fruition so long as they remain nomadic. They must be driven to gather permanently in one place, to fortify, so that we may converge on them and crush them. Take a platoon of your best men and see to it that the matter is addressed.”

“Fifty granites, Sire?” the granite questioned. “Our dearly departed friend here estimated that the rebel forces numbered at least a thousand mages and mundane, not counting those who’d evacuated.”

“Yes, quite right,” the Highest said thoughtfully. “That does seem a bit unbalanced, doesn’t it? Still, I’m certain that the rebel party will at least provide your men some measure of amusement. Call it an indulgence for a chosen few.”

“Of course, Sire.” The guard bowed reverently and melted into the stone floor with barely a ripple.

The Highest watched as the ripple smoothed, the stone floor becoming solid once again. More than once, he’d secretly wished for such an ability. Ah, to be able to travel at will, to transport one’s self through the sheer power of one’s own desire. Such a thing would be... would be...

Less than useless to one such as myself
, the Highest thought, once more batting down the foolish desire. What need had he of such a pointless power? What? He, the undisputed ruler of the world, to want for
anything
? Preposterous. He chuckled at the thought, one that was surely born of boredom. After all, having the fate of every soul on the planet in your hand for more than four thousand years, why... that kind of thing tends to get tedious.

He did have one regret, however. He should have made Nestor to get rid of the corpse that still lay in the middle of the floor, blood already congealing on the cooling flesh.

***

Nestor walked the halls of the barracks of the Granite Guard, seeking out his charges with purpose. His lord had given him an order. His life was to serve to the fullest extent of his ability.

So why did he feel uneasy?

Spying two favorites of his, he stopped the mages, ordering them to assemble in the central courtyard within the hour. The pair saluted smartly and departed at once to gather their gear, and Nestor was once again alone with his thoughts.

There was something about the Highest’s eyes, his demeanor, that was unsettling to him. What that something was, exactly, he couldn’t say. He just knew that it was there.

Nestor had been in service to the Highest most of his life.
One hundred seventeen years this Whitesong
, he thought to himself. Far longer than his chiseled middle-aged looks belied. And he’d been Chancellor to the Highest for the last eighty, directing the daily workings of the Veylin government, serving as Chief General of the Earthen Rank, sitting as Patriarch of the Granite Order, and ministering to the personal needs of the Highest himself. If the Highest was the head of the world, Nestor was most certainly the neck.

In all those years, with all those responsibilities, he’d served the Highest with zealous abandon, earning time and again his master’s favor. He thought he’d seen every side that the Highest had to offer.

Until just now.

He’d noticed something in the Highest’s face when he dispatched that cowardly emerald. It wasn’t fear. What had the Vicar of the Crafter to be fearful of? Neither was it anger. But whatever ‘it’ was, he had sensed it when he and the traitor Laryn had brought news of the rebel prince’s escape, the mystery emotion hidden beneath his lord’s fury.

Frustration? No, certainly not. For that would mean that the rebels had actually dealt a blow to the ruler of this world.
As if that were possible
, he scoffed.

But even as he mocked, the truth of the matter dawned on him.

Uncertainty.

Flaw.

In all his years of service to his lord, the Highest’s power had been absolute. His every whim was law. His whispered word was death, immediate and torturous. No one had ever dared to oppose the Highest and live to tell it. His rule had been perfect, unblemished.

Until this past Greenfield, just after the Festival of Sowing. The Highest had meant to crush the rebel prince publicly, humiliate him, and set him to slave his days away in the dungeons, thus depriving the ‘Cause’ of its precious martyr.

Instead, he and his fellow conspirators escaped, and the will of the Highest was thwarted.

Flaw.

Was it possible that the Vicar of the Crafter might have erred? Preposterous! For an error meant an imperfection, and everyone knew that the Vicar of the Crafter was perfect, without fault, without...

Flaw.

That thought echoed in the corridors of Nestor’s mind, as loudly as the clop of his booted feet. For weeks following the escape, that same thought had plagued him, fading to near silence until he was almost at peace with himself once more, only to be given new life with the resounding defeat of the Earthen Ranks at Caravan.

Nestor tried vainly to shut the thought out. Shaking his head violently in uncertain denial, he trod purposefully toward the mess hall where he would surely find more of his charges. A team would be assembled, then dispatched to Caravan’s last known location. They would get there around nightfall the next day, midnight at the latest. With the Crafter’s blessing, they would find the rebels there, and obliterate them. With the Crafter’s blessing...

Nestor prayed that it would be so. Not for his granites—fifty of his best men were more than enough to deal with so few enemies. And not for fear of the rebels—the Highest had survived a thousand such uprisings. No. He prayed the Crafter’s blessing for himself. For if He didn’t grant His blessing, and the granites failed, could Nestor still see the Highest as the Crafter’s Vicar? And if not the Vicar, who
was
the Highest?

He paused momentarily to shake his head clear, hoping to knock loose his doubts before continuing. But to no avail. The clop of his boots resounded off the walls as he went, keeping perfect time with his echoing doubt.

Flaw... flaw... flaw...

***

“And you know the rest,” Jaren concluded. “Retzu organized work details to pack up the remaining wagons and get them moving before the reinforcements get there. He set the amethysts to lifting the lot of them, getting them as far from the campsite as possible. He also set a handful of amethysts aside from the lift to disburse the auric trail that our magical transport would leave behind, so any Rank that might come looking won’t have any means to track us. Once he had set them to work, he dispatched a rider by pegasus to warn Wayfarer’s Rest and the other villages, and then sent us ahead to find you.” Keth nodded his concurrence.

“I assume that you’ll be able to transport us to their location safely, Keth?” Reit asked rhetorically. He knew well what the young granite was capable of. Jaren could be overzealous with his praise from time to time, but he always gave Reit the absolute truth as he saw it.

“Aye, Lord Reit,” the granite said with just a hint of irritation. “And don’t you worry that any Granite Guards will find my backtrail. Very few of the Highest’s men have ever met me... and lived. And none of those were Granite Guards. They wouldn’t know my aura, so they wouldn’t be able to sense me if I were standing on top of them, wielding an earthquake. And there are enough granite aura trails at the former Caravan site that they wont be able to distinguish my trail from another’s. They’d be chasing backtrails for weeks before determining which one’s mine, and by that time, we’ll be long gone.”

“It also helps that we were lifted with the first group of amethysts,” Jaren interjected. “Keth’s trail to this site starts far to the north of Caravan site. There is no way the Granite Guard will come across it any time soon.”

Reit sat in silence for a moment, stroking his goatee thoughtfully and eying the mages. Jaren was haggard, his robes filthy but whole, thanks in large part to the granite’s amazing magics. Keth himself, in his normal leathers, seemed no worse for wear. Yet both of them were exhausted, having searched the night through and half the day to find Reit. His heart went out to them, wished he could let them rest, but there were still questions he needed answered.

“Casualties?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge the growing lump in his throat. Time enough for that later.

“Minimal,” Jaren said, more upbeat than he felt. “All told, we lost less than fifty mundane warriors, and even fewer mages. All Heads of Order and Guild are accounted for. Menkal got a little singed. And Master Seti, the blacksmith, lost his sledge arm, but he was being healed when we left. All in all, I think we gave the Highest something to think about.”

Keth glowered at the mention of his wounded master’s name. “We destroyed their whole force to a man. I’d say our dead have been avenged,” he said fiercely.

Reit looked hard at the granite mage, whose cold, stone eyes stared vainly into the fire pit, seeing only memories of the battle. The rebel leader almost rebuked the granite’s callousness, but thought better of it. No man should have to witness such carnage, let alone deal it out. But at least Keth had been there. Reit wondered how callous he himself would have been, having gone through what this farmboy-cum-mage had. If only he’d—

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Jaren said, reading Reit’s expression. “We wouldn’t have let you fight even if you had stayed, so don’t even think it. You’re too important to the Cause.”

Delana—who, with Marissa and a select few of the other refugees, had been listening to Jaren’s account of the battle—placed her arm around her husband, a gentle yet steadfast reminder of his importance, to her as well as to the Cause.
No
, he thought.
I couldn’t have stayed. They wouldn’t have let me
.

Unable to stay silent a moment longer, Marissa spoke. Tears welled in her eyes, but to her credit, she didn’t allow a single one to fall. She asked in a small yet steely voice, “Where is Sal?”

Jaren chose his words carefully, praising Sal for his courage and his selflessness. He was positive that Sal would turn up any time now, possibly already with Retzu and the other survivors. He was sure that Sal had escaped any serious harm. But if Reit had been a betting man, he’d have wagered that Marissa heard nothing beyond “I don’t know”.

He felt like crying himself—for his people, for his missing friend, for himself. Instead, he started passing orders, spurring the camp into action. The Ranks would be pouring through the Vale in greater numbers now, which meant that the Vale was no longer safe, so Caravan would have to stay on the move. Once Keth returned with the rest of the refugees, Reit would order the lifting of the entire village over the Icebreaks. He knew it would be taxing on the already exhausted amethysts, and he knew it would have to be done in sections, but he could see no alternative. Anyone separated from the village during the lift would have to fend for themselves, at least for the time being. But even those not privy to Reit’s plans for Harvest knew there were ways of finding their way home, regardless of where the village happened to be on any given day. By the time Caravan reached Scholar’s Ford, Reit expected that most would have rejoined them.