Tasvir Virk.
Tasvir Virk.
He heard the words now. The chanting growing louder and louder. The sibilant hissing. They had been saying his name all along. His soldiers had hidden among those afflicted with leprosaria. His followers had murdered Annon’s friend Reeder. A cold, clutching feeling grappled inside the Druidecht’s chest.
“He comes,” the Empress whispered. She was sweating too. With her free hand, she reached for Mathon’s arm and clutched it.
Tyrus rose to his full height, his face grim and brooding. Annon did not ask about the Tay al-Ard. He suspected that it would not be ready to transport them. They would have to face the situation without its magic.
“The far tunnel, the one we entered, will be blocked,” Mathon said. “Behind us is another way out. There are spirit creatures there that will frighten all but the bravest Boeotians. Do you see the rune stones carved in the stone above the tunnel? Take your friends and go that way to escape.”
Phae stood quickly and rubbed her arms as if a winter’s chill had frozen the chamber. A crowd of shuffling masses began to straighten, revealing their deception as they drew nearer. All of Tyrus’s band quickly clustered around where the Empress still sat, her face fearful but determined.
“Do we fight our way clear?” Paedrin asked, scanning the advancing warriors. There were easily two hundred or more, chanting the name of their leader over and over, drawing weapons from beneath their tattered clothes. Other faces were stern and impassive.
“You cannot face so many,” the Empress said. “There are thousands more coming from the caverns. This is a war band, not a hunting party. Go!”
Annon saw him at last. The gaunt one. Tasvir Virk.
The look on his face was full of strength and glee. He was tall, thin as a rail, but Annon remembered his fierce strength. He detected the presence of spirit magic in a whorl around the man, as the Druidecht drew powers inside himself to aid against them. All the spirits in the room were drawn to Tasvir Virk like a whirlpool in a fast-moving river. None of them sought to aid Annon or the Empress. They harkened to one master.
“Ich chai velot grane!” Tasvir Virk shouted. The chanting hushed. His voice fell to a quiet, almost lilting, sound. “Ich malor ich conen. Ich safar!”
The Empress stood, her face going white. “It is time,” she said, shaking her head. She looked at Tyrus in agitation. “Go while you can, Tyrus.”
“Ich safar!” screamed Tasvir Virk. He raised an oozing stump high into the air. He switched his language to Aeduan, his leering grin triumphant. “I see the boy! I see the man. Oh, how I have longed for this day, Tyrus Paracelsus. Shedding the Empress’s blood would have earned me the right to rule. Killing you will bring me renown and allow me to summon all the warriors to my creed. And there is the boy who left me with a shameful hand. You, pup, I will let live to be my slave. But I will take your hand, boy. I will take your hand! Atu vast! Atu vast!”
“We have, surviving over many centuries, a text written by an ancient Vaettir general on the art of war. It was written during a time when that race eschewed peace and spent many centuries embroiled in conflict. I heard the Arch-Rike quote it thus in our language: All war is deception.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
IX
Phae’s emotions roiled with the dread of the upcoming carnage. They were vastly outnumbered, the enemy poised to fight and growing more innumerable by the moment, and against a raving madman who reeked of the fireblood. Part of her wanted to run. Part of her wanted to stand and fight and prevent the Empress from being overrun. The Empress had shared what little she could before her enemies arrived. She had not asked for help, and in fact was offering them a way to escape, to abandon her to her enemies. Part of Phae’s soul shriveled at the sacrifice the Empress was making.
And yet, her ears were still ringing from the Empress’s words about the Arch-Rike being invulnerable. The way she had described it reminded Phae so much of Shion that her mind had begun to spin possibilities she could not grasp. The claw marks on his face had been reminiscent of one facing the dangers of the Scourgelands. But what if he, somehow, had been granted the immunity and immortality that the Arch-Rike also possessed? Did they have, with them, the only weapon that would defeat the one called Shirikant?
The maddening maelstrom swirled around her, yet there was something in her thoughts, something just beyond her reach, which teased her. The Empress had directed them to the tunnel they could escape into. Or was it already too late?
Her father’s expression was hardened with determination. He did not look frantic or agitated—just fiercely serious. Paedrin looked as if he were ready to spring into the air and start fighting. Hettie was looking at the doorway out, while Baylen glared at the gathering enemies and drew his twin blades. All of her fellow companions deferred to Tyrus, awaiting his decision. It happened in moments.
Tasvir Virk.
He heard the words now. The chanting growing louder and louder. The sibilant hissing. They had been saying his name all along. His soldiers had hidden among those afflicted with leprosaria. His followers had murdered Annon’s friend Reeder. A cold, clutching feeling grappled inside the Druidecht’s chest.
“He comes,” the Empress whispered. She was sweating too. With her free hand, she reached for Mathon’s arm and clutched it.
Tyrus rose to his full height, his face grim and brooding. Annon did not ask about the Tay al-Ard. He suspected that it would not be ready to transport them. They would have to face the situation without its magic.
“The far tunnel, the one we entered, will be blocked,” Mathon said. “Behind us is another way out. There are spirit creatures there that will frighten all but the bravest Boeotians. Do you see the rune stones carved in the stone above the tunnel? Take your friends and go that way to escape.”
Phae stood quickly and rubbed her arms as if a winter’s chill had frozen the chamber. A crowd of shuffling masses began to straighten, revealing their deception as they drew nearer. All of Tyrus’s band quickly clustered around where the Empress still sat, her face fearful but determined.
“Do we fight our way clear?” Paedrin asked, scanning the advancing warriors. There were easily two hundred or more, chanting the name of their leader over and over, drawing weapons from beneath their tattered clothes. Other faces were stern and impassive.
“You cannot face so many,” the Empress said. “There are thousands more coming from the caverns. This is a war band, not a hunting party. Go!”
Annon saw him at last. The gaunt one. Tasvir Virk.
The look on his face was full of strength and glee. He was tall, thin as a rail, but Annon remembered his fierce strength. He detected the presence of spirit magic in a whorl around the man, as the Druidecht drew powers inside himself to aid against them. All the spirits in the room were drawn to Tasvir Virk like a whirlpool in a fast-moving river. None of them sought to aid Annon or the Empress. They harkened to one master.
“Ich chai velot grane!” Tasvir Virk shouted. The chanting hushed. His voice fell to a quiet, almost lilting, sound. “Ich malor ich conen. Ich safar!”
The Empress stood, her face going white. “It is time,” she said, shaking her head. She looked at Tyrus in agitation. “Go while you can, Tyrus.”
“Ich safar!” screamed Tasvir Virk. He raised an oozing stump high into the air. He switched his language to Aeduan, his leering grin triumphant. “I see the boy! I see the man. Oh, how I have longed for this day, Tyrus Paracelsus. Shedding the Empress’s blood would have earned me the right to rule. Killing you will bring me renown and allow me to summon all the warriors to my creed. And there is the boy who left me with a shameful hand. You, pup, I will let live to be my slave. But I will take your hand, boy. I will take your hand! Atu vast! Atu vast!”
“We have, surviving over many centuries, a text written by an ancient Vaettir general on the art of war. It was written during a time when that race eschewed peace and spent many centuries embroiled in conflict. I heard the Arch-Rike quote it thus in our language: All war is deception.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
IX
Phae’s emotions roiled with the dread of the upcoming carnage. They were vastly outnumbered, the enemy poised to fight and growing more innumerable by the moment, and against a raving madman who reeked of the fireblood. Part of her wanted to run. Part of her wanted to stand and fight and prevent the Empress from being overrun. The Empress had shared what little she could before her enemies arrived. She had not asked for help, and in fact was offering them a way to escape, to abandon her to her enemies. Part of Phae’s soul shriveled at the sacrifice the Empress was making.
And yet, her ears were still ringing from the Empress’s words about the Arch-Rike being invulnerable. The way she had described it reminded Phae so much of Shion that her mind had begun to spin possibilities she could not grasp. The claw marks on his face had been reminiscent of one facing the dangers of the Scourgelands. But what if he, somehow, had been granted the immunity and immortality that the Arch-Rike also possessed? Did they have, with them, the only weapon that would defeat the one called Shirikant?
The maddening maelstrom swirled around her, yet there was something in her thoughts, something just beyond her reach, which teased her. The Empress had directed them to the tunnel they could escape into. Or was it already too late?
Her father’s expression was hardened with determination. He did not look frantic or agitated—just fiercely serious. Paedrin looked as if he were ready to spring into the air and start fighting. Hettie was looking at the doorway out, while Baylen glared at the gathering enemies and drew his twin blades. All of her fellow companions deferred to Tyrus, awaiting his decision. It happened in moments.
