The Path of Destruction (Rune Breaker) (2 page)

“It hurt. It still hurts. But this is different. I don't understand why and I feel horrible about that.” She finally looked at him, green eyes full of pain. “Why is that, Kaiel? Why do I feel worse now when I've lost more people than I'd wager most people will ever know?”

The question tripped up Kaiel's entire train of thought. “I... don't know the answer to that, Taylin. But I do know that you can't control how you feel. Maybe you felt more of a connection with Issacor because you're both warriors, or because he's the first friend you've lost since winning your freedom. Maybe now you're worried that things haven't changed as much for the better as you thought.”

He stood up straight, though he was still dwarfed by her. “And if that's the case; put your mind at ease. Things have changed a great deal. Issacor made a sacrifice that probably kept Rale out of Matasume's clutches and saved both Signateria and Growulff's lives. All death is regrettable, but his was a good and honorable one.”

His reassurance seemed lost on Taylin, but her expression turned stony. “I'm not sure if you're right about that or not. But you are right on one thing: I was hoping that being free meant no more lost friends. I just hope I can do something to keep from losing Motsey too.”

She tossed the wooden bar aside and bent to get the next one. “I... I'll be alright. Maybe I'll fly from here until we make camp to take my mind off things. Thank you.”

There was no truth in her assertion that she would be fine, Kaiel noted, but pushing her would do more harm than good, so he let it go and went to sit in the grass besides Rai. “And how are you doing?”

“No different from when we talked this morning.” said the halfling woman. “Afraid for Motsey. Missing Rale, Bromun and Growulff.” She deftly looped the end of the cord she was coiling so that it held itself together. “Worried about Taylin, now.” She added quietly.

Kaiel watched the woman in question doing violence to what was left of the sledge. “She's been through a lot. The kinds of things you don't come out the other side of unchanged. The best we can hope for is that she'll work through this before something comes up that requires her to be clearheaded.”

Rai stacked the cord with the others she'd done and took up the last one. “Same goes for all of us, doesn't it? Taylin and myself for obvious reasons, Brin because of Layaka, and Ru... I don't understand Ru. The point is, we're going to be depending on you to keep us sane through this.”

“Don't think that I'm detached from this.” he replied simply and drew a long breath.

“You're my husband's brother and Motsey's uncle. I know that you aren't detached. But you're also on your way to being a loreman and this is one of the things they do, isn't it? Keeping people from panicking or giving in to despair? Giving them hope?”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Was it possible for him to do that in the face of his traveling companions' very personal recent tragedies? “I just hope I know where to start.”

Rai dropped the now coiled cord with the others. “Where's that flute of yours? Play us something happy while we wait for Brin.”

Kaiel gave her a small smile and took the instrument from his coat. Then he began to play.

***

Wind and rain battered the island, but inside the thick walls, made of equal parts stone and spellcraft, Nyadec Tolere was only aware of the storm when a boom of thunder managed to penetrate the silence of his office.

As steward of Nhan Raduul for almost twenty years and a skilled servant by profession, he was used to both storms and being insulated from them. Insulated from everything, really. Though the island, the keep and the fishing town that supported both were in disputed waters, the island was largely unknown thanks to unkind currents and winds conspiring to ensure that only someone looking for the place could find it.

And with no ruler to make petty demands or do routine-altering things like hold balls, Nhan Raduul under his stewardship had become so efficient that he was certain he could navigate the entire keep blindfolded and still be able to conduct its business perfectly.

On most days, he ran out of things he needed to do by midday. This was one of those days, and it found him idling in the stuffed chair in his office, contemplating what to fill his time with for the day. The storm would prevent his usual trip into the village, and like many Kimean households, there wasn't a library because reading for enjoyment was thought of as a low pursuit; literacy was for taking and reading notes regarding arcane studies.

He was still searching for inspiration when one of the young boys he employed to run messages throughout the extensive keep and out to the town burst into his office.

The lad bore the clear indicators of a family whose genetic legacy had been tampered with. His hair was stark white, shading to extremely light blue, his eyes red like an albino's, and overly large in his head. The overall effect made people look twice, but was nowhere near as drastic as some of the alterations he'd seen Kimean aristocracy inflict on a peasantry they viewed as one mass pool of fodder for their experiments.

Now he stood, dripping wet, his long, unbound hair sticking to his face, with a look of unbridled excitement on his face. “Mister Tolere! Mister Tolere! They sent me up from the village!”

Tolere grunted and tried to look like he'd been interrupted in the middle of something important. “What is it, boy? And it had better be a navy bearing down on us to justify entering my office without knocking.”

The boy hung his head, eyes on the ground. “I'm sorry, Master. Only, they said to come with all haste, and I was already slowed up enough for the rain—didn't wanna slip and crack my head!”

A waved of Tolere's hand told the boy to get on with it. “You work for me, remember? No one else's orders come before mine and mine are to knock.”

“Begging your pardon, Master...” The boy stayed near to the door, ready to bolt. A lot of people new to the island behaved that way; like beaten dogs. They eventually came around, once they realized that the steward wasn't a cruel man, he just blustered because he could. “But ma says we work for the Lord of Nhan Raduul, Lord Crossius.”

Tolere chuckled. “Yes, but beyond the gold he sends to keep the coffers topped up, Crossius hasn't been on this island for more than twice as long as you've lived.”

“That's just what he said, Master.” said the boy with the wide-eyed expression of a child desperately trying to relate their side of the story before punishment. “He said it's been nigh on twenty years, and that I should run and tell you he was coming.”

“Who told you this?” Tolere asked, resisting the urge to heave a sigh.

“Why Lord Crossius, Master. He said he'd be here in an hour.”

Tolere gaped like a fish on the deck of a ship for a long moment. It couldn't be! After two decades of efficiency and bliss, it was all just going to be torn from him again? He'd gotten used to the life of an autonomous steward, and now he was expected to return to the life of a
servant
?

He suddenly knew what he needed to do that day: drink. There was half a bottle of the local brandy in his desk. Like a flash, he went for it, half-shouting to the boy to order the household staff to assemble for presentation in the receiving hall before diving into the fermented salve for his soon to be battered pride.

***

Mon Sulus Kime was a meritocracy that judged its members on their accomplishments in spellcraft with very complex and strict views on what types of spellcraft had merit. But even in the unusual system of hierarchy that existed in the Kimean Isles, an aristocrat was an aristocrat, and Lord Crossius lived up to expectations by arriving two hours after his underlings were all expected to be ready for him.

The household staff was arrayed in neat ranks according to their station in the receiving hall when the retinue finally arrived.

Tolere watched their arrival with trepidation and more bitterness than was healthy, but managed to maintain his best posture. He was front and center as the main doors were opened. Storm winds rudely preceded the lord, lashing the servants nearest the doors with cold rain. Just behind it came the oddly small procession of Nhan Raduul's long absent master.

Lord Ienstadt Crossius entered without a herald to announce him. Tall and thin, he looked much like Tolere remembered him from years ago: the same weak jaw and narrow nose, the same pale skin, and impassive, unchanging expression. His taste of clothing still hadn't changed either. In place of the light, close fitting style preferred in the hotter climes of the islands, Crossius wore extravagant robes in the style of Mindeforme. The only sign that time held any sway over him was the silver that now colored his normally black hair.

He, of course, was as dry as a desert at noon, thanks no doubt to the spell that hovered above him, occasionally flashing a translucent red and revealing a shape not unlike an enormous jellyfish when the gusting wind drove rain in his direction.

Also with him was his bride, the Lady Milfine. In all his years serving the couple, Tolere couldn't recall ever seeing her face. Like her husband, she adopted the robes of Mindeforme, but she also supplemented it with a hood that covered all but her eyes; and a veil that covered those. It was a practice she claimed was from Callen, but Tolere had never heard of such a thing.

She stood in the protection of the barrier, alongside a new face in the Lord's company: a young woman.

This one was dressed expensively, but in a practical manner: a fitted shirt, dyed dark blue with ivory toggles, heavy trousers of the same color, tied together with a white satin sash, and a spider-silk cloak in white. Her hair was golden, the color storybooks gave to princesses, but she kept it in a utilitarian ponytail held in place by metal decorations of some sort. On her shoulder perched a fantastic specimen of tropical bird; a green, blue and yellow creature whose long tail trailed down the woman's back.

Behind them came porters, hauling the usual array of chests and oilcloth wrapped packages. Four young men were also carrying something concealed by a tarp and supported between metal poles. By the care they took with it, Tolere was certain they had either been bribed or threatened in regard to its handling.

At his signal, the whole of the household genuflected to their lord as a sign of respect.

Crossius drew up short as if he originally intended to walk right through without stopping. Soon however, one thin eyebrow raised and he gestured out of hand. “Rise.”

The servants slowly did as told. Tolere scrambled to standing and hurried forward like an eager dog. It was humiliating, but that was life in the Kimean Isles.

“My lord! We are most grateful that the day has finally come for you to return to us.” He stopped a respectful distance away, “As you directed, I have acted as steward in your absence and I dearly hope that you are happy with what I've done these past few years.”

“It will do.” said Crossius, then he stepped to one side and indicated the young woman. “This is my ward, acquired during my travels; Layaka Emeries-Partha. Her word is to be considered my own.”

Layaka nodded once and went back to openly leering at one of the maids.

Tolere made silent note of that. In any other nation, that look might merely indicate dalliances with the help. In the Kimean Isles, it was just as likely the precursor to the maid becoming a test subject for some new spell that might turn her into a monster, or leave her in agony. He knew everyone who worked in the keep, and resolved to schedule things so that this Layaka person couldn't arrange any unfortunate accidents or false criminal accusations for the young woman.

Crossius continued. “I trust the keep's garrison is still manned and operational?”

“Of course, my Lord. Three dozen highly trained soldiers, backed by a corps of six military magi.”

“Excellent. Order them to prepare to be reinforced. I will be bringing mercenaries onto the island via the teleportation array over the next several days. Have them on high alert: while I do this, the island will be vulnerable to scrying and enemy teleportation. Oh. And do you still remember the operation of the keep's magical defenses?”

Tolere stared blankly, his mouth working on automatic. “Yes, my lord. A-are we at war?”

“Good. Train three people you can trust in their operation and activate everything.” Lord Crossius's face remained just as impassive as ever as he spoke, like a mask. “And oh yes, war is coming. A power beyond the scope of your imagination is being brought to bear on this island.”

Before Tolere could speak, Crossius was off and moving again, heading toward the central spiral staircase that serviced the keep. Along the way, he turned and pointed to the men carrying the tarp covered thing. “You. Come with me. I need to find a safe place for that.”

Milfine followed after with Layaka not far behind. As she moved forward with a grace that seemed akin to floating, there was a faint scraping of clay over the stone floor. “'A great power is being brought to bear on this island'” She echoed sarcastically once they were out of earshot of the servants.

“In no way is that a lie.” Crossius replied. “I only neglected to mention that 'here' is exactly where I want that power to come.”

Three days out from Daire City found them beyond the hills that surrounded the city and on the grasslands to the south. There, the sun blazed down on endless, gentle slopes of grass kept short by the herds of wild horses, antelope, and thick-necked aurochs that roamed freely.

Where the army had passed, the vegetation was trampled into the dirt, revealing the bones and gristle of herd animals taken by soldiers to supplement their rations. They were being picked over by sun scarabs: beetles the size of house cats with blue and gold carapaces. These in turn were preyed upon by koshi orms: winged serpents whose verdant scales glittered in the sun.

The scarabs were harmless, but koshi orms that felt threatened by larger creatures employed a poisonous bite, so Kaiel steered the party slightly westward and out of the direct path left behind by the army. Once or twice, they caught sight of a small pride of spotted lions waiting out the heat of day beneath the rare tree growing out in the open, or mated pairs of moas; distant cousins of ornis birds like Miser, ahunt on the edges of herds.