The Way of the Soul (28 page)

Reon hopped back over the corpse. As expected, Bell pushed onward and tripped on the body. She stumbled but did not fall. Reon cut downward, but Bell let her shield take the hit as she regained her footing.

They bashed at each other like starving beasts fighting over a recent kill. Bell jabbed with her blade. Reon parried or sidestepped every attack. Her own offense met with Bell’s shield.

Remembering the way Owl used the weapon, Reon took a chance. She dropped low and swiped at Bell’s knees. Bell jumped over the attack and came down swinging. Reon had to roll through the mud and blood to avoid getting hit.

Bell stabbed at the ground again and again, but Reon continued to roll. “Stay still, you pathetic whore.”

Finally, Reon popped back to her feet, and the two adversaries began their circling dance once more. “Why are you even fighting me?” Reon asked. “Harskill betrayed us all.”

“Betrayed you. Not me. I never expected him to keep his word. I’ve known him too long.”

“Look at him.” Off to the right, Harskill continued to battle with Malja. His do-kha shot out tendrils that she evaded with great skill. She whirled back and cut one tendril off. The loose bit of do-kha flew over her head and attempted to attack on its own. With one desperate move, Malja blocked and continued the motion into another strike at Harskill. “He won’t give up on her and make you Queen. He’s trying to win her over.”

“You’re such a silly child. He’s trying to kill her, and you refuse to believe that I care nothing for being Queen because you still seek it.”

“Then what? If you never believed in his cause, why are you here now? Why are you risking your life fighting me?”

“I risk nothing fighting you. You’re weak. I want nothing from Harskill today. But you — I’ve wanted to kill you for a while now. And since you are no longer favored by him, you die today.”

Bell surprised with an arcing strike — different from the way she had fought before. Her footwork changed as well. She took wide steps opposite the motion of her sword. It was confusing, which Reon realized was the point.

Bell’s sword bit into Reon’s left shoulder. As Reon adjusted her grip to favor her right hand, Bell attacked once more. She didn’t wait to pull her sword free, though. Instead, she crashed her shield into Reon’s wrist.

The bones audibly cracked. Owl’s blade flipped over once and stuck in the ground. An awful slushing sound and a deep burning in her shoulder told her what her blurring eyes could not — that Bell had ripped her sword free. Reon wanted to rub her eyes, shake her vision free, but there was not time. Bell Wake had proven that she understood combat to some extent — enough to change tactics mid-battle — and that meant another thrust of the sword was coming.

Reon did the only thing she could think to do — she ran.

The world around her shrunk into a narrow corridor where she only concerned herself with the next step, the next step. Blood and bodies, dirt and debris threatened to catch her legs and send her to the ground. With her wrist crying out and her fingers unable to close, she could never hold a sword to fight back. Keep running. That was her only option.

She wanted to look back, to see how much distance she had traveled, to see if Bell Wake had pursued her. But she could not turn her head. That would risk falling on the infinite obstacles that seemed to multiply around her. Besides, she knew the answer — Bell Wake had to be right behind her, ready to kill her the moment she stopped running.

She had the presence of mind to shift her skin. In seconds, it matched her surroundings. But her do-kha did not function anymore. No matter what her skin color, her do-kha stood out, easy to see.

Her mouth tasted of her own blood. The acidic smells of urine and feces assaulted her as she plowed over numerous bodies. Not far behind, Bell Wake laughed.

Reon’s foot caught on the clothing of a dead monk. She slammed into the ground and rolled without control until she came to rest with her head against a small mound of several bodies. Bell Wake stood in the distance — but not distant enough.

As Bell sauntered towards her prey, Reon’s pulse eased back. The jolt of hitting the ground had rattled her senses back. She admonished herself for panicking. If she wanted to live, she had to keep thinking.

“I’ll take some of your skin off before I kill you.” Bell’s face warmed with a visible flush. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of torturing someone so deserving, and your skin is quite interesting.”

Reon did her best to shut out Bell’s taunting words and focused on solving her problem. Her wrist had been shattered. No way could she hold a sword, and fighting with her other hand would be foolish. For a secondary weapon meant to assist the primary weapon, her working hand would suffice, but she couldn’t fight effectively with it on its own.

Despite that reality, she grabbed one of several swords littering the ground. If nothing else, she would have that, and she could die knowing she tried everything. As her eyes shifted back towards Bell, she caught a glint off of something metal — not a blade. A gun. One of the monk’s rifles.

Reon extended her head to look over the body next to her. She saw Harskill and Malja continuing their combat. Red-colored magic blasted from his hand, but Malja arched back to evade it. She then sprang forward with her blade. Harskill pivoted to the side, but Malja let her blade dig into the platform and used it as support as she jumped up and kicked Harskill in the face. He spit out blood as he spun. Reon grinned —
she stole my move.

“Stop worrying about your ex-lover,” Bell said. Reon whirled back to find Bell standing within striking distance. “Even if he did care about you, he’ll want nothing to do with you after I’m done.”

Reon grabbed the rifle. Her broken wrist burned under the weight as she tried to hold it steady enough to fire. She finally propped the barrel on her knee and the butt on the ground.

“Your stupidity never ceases,” Bell said. “Harskill’s magic prevents those guns from firing.”

Using her good hand, Reon rested her finger on the trigger. “But Harskill’s too busy to concentrate on guns.”

She fired the rifle and a hole opened in Bell’s gut. When the pain hit Bell, her face dropped in shock. Reon could see the realization occur — the do-kha’s no longer worked; the hole in her body came from the rifle blast. Bell plunged to her knees as smoke curled around her face.

“You cheated.”

Reon let the rifle fall and slumped back against the ground. “This is war, you bitch.”

Closing her eyes, she promised to take only three breaths before opening her eyes again. If she waited longer, she might not be able to wake up. But her fears were unfounded. On her second breath, she heard the distinct
crackcrackcrack
of gunfire.

She opened her eyes and sat up. Two monks had taken her lead by grabbing rifles from the dead and using them against the Gate. A few Gate had picked up the weapons, too. They did not appear to have any experience with firearms. One shot off his own hand. The other couldn’t figure out how to reload and ended up using the rifle to bludgeon his enemy.

There still remained a sizable force on both sides. The brutality continued, though the Gate seemed less enthusiastic. Exhaustion could account for some of the change, but Reon noticed hesitancy. Of course, without their do-khas, the Gate were vulnerable. They had to be cautious.

But the monks did not go out of their way to kill the Gate, either. They only fought back when attacked. Those Gate that hung away from the action did not get targeted.

Despite these slight shifts in attitude, Reon did not have to look hard to find evidence of continuing abuse and death. Plenty of Gate still wanted to win this fight, still thought they would get to be gods. She could see the determination and desire on their greedy faces.

All because of, all for, Harskill.

She shifted on her knees in order to get a clear view of Harskill and Malja. Harskill moved with power and grace. Malja matched him each time. Whenever he dared, he snatched a look at Tommy. The worry on his face told Reon everything.

Tommy was alive, probably working on a spell, and Harskill was running out of time. Whatever spell Tommy cast, it would be big. The bigger the magic, the longer it took to create. But no matter what happened, it would be coming soon — if not, the spell would be pointless. Harskill had to make his move first.

While his focus rested on Tommy, Malja attempted to hook his waist with her curved blade. Any normal opponent would have been unable to avoid the attack. Any normal opponent would have been cut in two. But Harskill’s torso elongated and then curved from the middle outward. The blade passed through without touching him. The moment it cleared, his body snapped back to normal.

The do-kha then covered over his left hand and continued outward. Reon assumed he would be forming a weapon similar to what she did with her own do-kha, but instead of turning rigid, the do-kha became thick and loose like the arms of a large octopus. Harskill’s newly formed tentacle jabbed out with furious speed and snagged Malja.

It curled around her and lifted her off the ground. Her arms were pinned to her sides, and her blade clanged when it hit the marble floor. She swore at him, but he turned away, letting his do-kha keep her immobile. He faced Tommy, and the young man stood.

With his back to her, Reon could not see Tommy’s face, but she counted that as a good thing. Harskill’s expression showed how terrifying the young man could be. A rattle of gunfire erupted near the bridge, but these two combatants remained still. Even Malja’s struggle did not register between them. Reon had seen this before — when two fighting Masters faced off. But in those cases, the Masters were still because they did not want to give each other any advantage. Here, Reon thought for certain that the stillness came from the unknown. Harskill had no idea what Tommy planned, and Tommy had no idea if Harskill had recharged enough to be a significant threat.

As if reacting to unheard music, both Harskill and Tommy shifted positions. Tommy’s hands lowered and opened toward the Library. Harskill widened his legs and placed his hands on his hips.

The sharp scent of gunfire drifted by on thick, gray smoke. For a moment, it obscured Reon’s view. When it cleared, she found Tommy had lifted his hands above his head and Harskill had set one leg back and bent the other slightly.

Like a startled horse, everything ignited for no reason Reon could see. Tommy brought his arms down with decisive force. When his hands slapped against his thighs, green darts of magic erupted out of him. Out of all of him.

His body lifted into the air, writhing and seizing, as an onslaught of magic volleyed out of him. Each spear of magic bulleted towards Harskill leaving a thin trail of green fire behind. Before the fire could vanish in the air, another spear followed. And another. Another. Another.

Harskill did not flinch away. As the barrage of magic approached, his face tightened in concentration. The attack came fast, but his do-kha reacted equally fast. A large portion of it spread out, forming a wire-thin linked fence. The green darts spattered against it with an electric sizzle.

Tommy pressed harder, becoming a machine autofiring magic at a rapid rate.
And it’s all from within him.
Reon could not believe what she saw, what she understood. That magic had to originate somewhere. Since it all poured out of Tommy, and there was no other source of energy he had tapped into — it came from inside him. He used his body’s energy. His body’s life. For Malja? What was it about that woman that drove these men to fight so hard for her?

Harskill’s fence grew larger. His do-kha pulled off his feet and inched back up his arms. It shifted its tentacles to Harskill’s back as it increased the fence’s size even more. It was using all it had available to make this fence and still maintain control over Malja. Reon knew that would not be easy. Malja kicked and wriggled and fought to be free.

When the last spear shot off, Tommy dropped to the dirt. His body was soaked, and Reon could hear his labored breaths. Harskill sighed and his do-kha eased back over his body.

“That’s the problem with big magic,” Harskill said. “It takes too long to cast, and if you fail, you’ve got nothing left.”

Without looking up, Tommy raised one hand. Whatever he intended to do, however, would not happen. Harskill formed another octopus tentacle off his back and grabbed Tommy by the head.

“Let him go,” Malja yelled.

Harskill glanced at her. “I intend to.” He walked off the platform and headed toward the gorge.

“No. You do this, and you’ll never have any hope of gaining my love.”

“I think that possibility ended long ago.”

Tommy did not struggle. Hanging limp in Harskill’s do-kha embrace, he only had the strength to glare. The tentacle holding Malja kept her high off the ground and furthest from Harskill’s body. As he walked, he towed her along like a child’s balloon — albeit a struggling, cursing balloon.

Reon wished she could stop this. She even looked at the rifle at her feet. But with her broken wrist, and as drained as she felt, she held no false hopes — she could never raise the weapon, aim, and fire effectively, if it all. Certainly not in time to save Tommy or Malja. And part of her still rebelled against the idea of helping them, still saw them as her enemy.