The Brightest Shadow, page 45
Hanfel drained the rest of his beer and stood up. "For a start, we should head out of town and see what you're made of. We have plenty of weak fighters, so you're definitely good enough, but just how good you are will make a difference. After that, you'll travel with us and be given a few chances to prove yourself."
"Works for me." Veron added the gourd of whiskey to the rest of her collection and moved to follow him. Soon after, Graenin flowed after them.
They left the crappy little town, starting at a walk and accelerating as they got further into the grasslands. Veron had absolutely no doubt about her ability to outrun them: Hanfel was good at short bursts of speed if anything, and Graenin didn't look like he had much in the way of stamina. It seemed they felt the same way, because they didn't try to test her on speed.
Now that she was actually making contact, Veron had mixed feelings. It would be more interesting than getting drunk and risking capture, sure. Whatever else the Coran resistance was doing wrong, she never heard anything about it losing people. Besides, fighting with others might clear her head after so long with the Hero. That alone was worth something. She could always loot the resistance and run off later.
"This is far enough." Hanfel stopped and folded his arms over his chest. "Let's see what you have."
"More than you can handle, Muscleface."
"What?" Hanfel had been shifting into combat position but hesitated at that. While he paused, Veron drew her sword.
Veron started with a slash at his side, more to see what he would do than because it was a good opening move. To her surprise, Hanfel let it hit. If she had been striking him with her full strength, it would have cut into him, but she didn't see arrogance on his face. He'd bet on her holding back.
That was made certain when his arm clamped down onto the blade, locking it in place. His other hand lunged out, grabbing for her wrist.
She abandoned the sword, evading his grab. If he got a grip on her, she'd bet that he'd make her regret it. When he started to move after her she reversed direction, landing a kick on his chest that he just took with a grunt. That had been a real kick, too. Muscleface was tough.
Her real purpose had been to get her foot in position, though. Veron jerked it backward and caught the crossguard of her sword, jerking it from under his arm and to her waiting hand. He winced as if he felt the edge, though she didn't see any blood. She hefted her sword and raised an eyebrow at him.
"That good enough?"
"Not quite." It was Graenin who spoke, stepping out opposite her. He lifted his hands at his sides, green light flickering in each palm. Veron stuck her tongue out at him in distaste.
"Really? Fancy tricks like that don't do a lot of good compared to a blade through the skull."
Instead of answering, Graenin gave her a small smile. Arrogant bastard. She'd probably given a lot of similarly arrogant smiles, though.
Without warning she lunged forward, closing the distance between them. She could feel the sein gathering in his left palm, preparing a strike, but he wasn't going to be fast enough. Veron went low and slashed at his head, aiming to knock off his stupid hood but not injure him.
To her surprise, he managed to dodge back. Alright, so Goatee was fast. That didn't mean his idiotic method of using sein was good enough. The strike still wasn't quite ready and she was in his range now, shifting her sword back and thrusting at his chest.
His right hand moved, there was a thunderclap, and then Veron was flat on her back.
Damn. She stared upward, trying to remember the details. He hadn't been gathering power in his right hand secretly or anything. It had just gone from basic preparation to hitting her. The movement of his body was as fast as using a knife, she guessed, and the sein itself moved faster than a normal weapon. She'd only had a glimpse of some kind of green bolt and no time to dodge.
Hanfel offered her a hand up, but Veron ignored it. She drew her legs back, then flipped up onto her feet and smirked at Graenin. "Fine, guess you can use those tricks of yours after all." Kicking her sword up to her hand, Veron returned it to its sheath. "How many warriors as developed as us do you have in your little group? Any true masters with you?"
"We have an old man who no longer fights, but no true masters in our active ranks," Hanfel said. "Aside from the two of us, there's a young man you'll meet soon who isn't bad. And Destrela coordinates our activities. Haven't gotten a chance to fight her, but I'm pretty sure she's dangerous."
Graenin nodded as he approached. "Not sure I'd want her at my side in a fight, but I definitely wouldn't want her at my back."
"She's the one you'll need to convince, if you want to see where we're hiding. But we'll vouch for your strength and what we've seen of your character."
Veron chewed her lip and considered that. "So, what would lead you to send all four of your strongest out at the same time? A little risky, don't you think?"
Hanfel shrugged, while Graenin shook his head. "Our location is very well hidden, so we usually don't need to worry about that. But it's still not ideal. That's part of why we considered recruiting you."
"Nice to be wanted. Alright, are we heading out or what?"
"Yes. We need to go some distance to meet one of our comrades. He actually knows what our next assignment is and we don't - easier to avoid retaliation if anyone gets captured."
They headed out, moving at a faster pace now. Fortunately, neither of them felt the need to yammer constantly. It was a relief compared to traveling with all the kids, though they could at least be entertaining at times. She had a feeling that Hanfel was always focused on grander goals. Maybe worth having a drink with, but probably not much fun otherwise.
Graenin... well, Goatee was growing on her. When he moved to run beside her, she didn't mind.
"I'm impressed you were so little affected by my attack." He flexed the fingers of one hand one at a time, almost a subconscious movement. "I used something that wouldn't cause real harm, since we were just testing you. But it was meant to stun, and you seemed to shake it off immediately."
"It's the drinking. My head has been knocked around too much for anything to have an effect."
He chuckled, which was about the best she could expect for a reply like that. More likely the real reason had to do with things she preferred not to think about. She'd certainly never bothered with much mental training in the past. Always struck her as too finicky.
She found herself wondering if Graenin might be able to teach her a trick or two in a way that wouldn't feel like shoving her head up her own asshole. He seemed a reasonable man, for someone who threw fancy light around. And those hand exercises... he had slender, dexterous fingers. One could imagine how well he needed to use them in order to execute all those fancy Estronese skills...
Unfortunately, she didn't get a real chance to talk to him before they came up to the man they must be looking for. At least she assumed so. He was sitting on the highest boulder in a mound, the sunlight gleaming off his armor and right into her fucking eyes.
When he saw them, the armored man stood up and jumped down the side of the mound. His helm only covered the top and sides of his head, showing one of those boringly handsome faces, square jaw and everything. Looked a bit young to her, but reasonably strong.
All the armor didn't impress her, though. Men wearing armor tended to rely on it too much, she found, and it didn't do any good against a sufficiently trained blade. The boy didn't even have a complete set, just his helm, a breastplate, and a huge gauntlet that covered one arm. His sword was on that side as well and looked like a fancy two-handed blade. A real knight from East Corah, maybe?
"Who is this?" he asked immediately. Hanfel answered.
"Narenel, meet Veron. Veron, Narenel. Destrela had us looking for talent and she's our first recruit. Destrela wouldn't have mentioned it to you."
"For the usual reasons. Yes, I know." Narenel turned to Veron and bowed with one hand at his waist. "I am pleased to meet you, my lady."
Veron almost wished he'd just stared at her tits instead. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she nodded vaguely at him. "Not really a lady, but okay. You a knight?"
"Not any more. The knights who remain in East Corah have been compromised by the Deathspawn. My own master was killed in a treacherous attack. I have lent my sword to the resistance ever since they helped rescue me from the northeastern territories."
"Great." Veron pulled out her flask and took a drink. Obnoxious kid, way too earnest about things. Best to avoid the naive fucker before he got people around him killed. She saw that Graenin rolled his eyes and held back a smirk.
Hanfel stepped forward, raising one hand. "Do you have the instructions from Destrela?"
"Already read and disposed of them. She didn't say anything about you finding anyone, but it's probably good to have another pair of eyes. We're going to raid one of their supply posts, to help throw them off the trail."
"Just a supply post? All of us for such a small target?"
Narenel nodded seriously and clasped his hands at his waist. "Apparently she's spread rumors about us attacking there and wants to make them seem credible by having it actually occur. But we'll need to hit hard and get out fast."
Graenin stroked his goatee thoughtfully. "Trying to confuse the rumors? There isn't anything to the suggestion that we have a traitor, is there?"
"I'm not sure. But our Deathspawn source apparently said there was someone coming with the intention of infiltrating. It sounded very odd. They weren't under Aryabaus's command, but he argued for them to assist him. And since he's always been targeting us first, you know that's how he'd use an infiltrator, if one really existed."
They considered that in silence for a bit, or rather Veron pretended to consider with them. The only thing she was curious about was what kind of Deathspawn source they had. An actual Deathspawn, or just someone working with them? Her instinct was not to care, but that sort of thing would start mattering to her if she was really joining this resistance, even temporarily.
"Alright, Lady Veron." Narenel turned toward her and put a hand on his sword. "Are you ready to attack straight into an ambush?"
Veron took one more drink and then put her flask away. "What the hell are we waiting for?"
Chapter 33
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"Humans on Breilin are mostly incapable of building large structures or fortifications, even to the degree that other human cultures can. Some groups in the southwest can produce rudimentary castles and there are a few cities, but most follow nomadic lifestyles for traditional reasons or believe that it is sacrilegious to build such large structures. Soldiers should take care not to offend such superstitions."
- mansthein field manual on central Breilin
-
At first Melal didn't recognize him.
With their digging increasingly hitting strange rock, they needed fewer workers down below. Melal had pretended not to be able to control his strength and cracked one of the walls. It got him a lecture, but also got him sent to work on the surface. Now that it was easier to slack off, he was beginning to enjoy life a little again.
It wasn't unusual for Rhilanor to visit him there, where they could chat or practice. Melal turned to his friend with a smile, opening his mouth to say something about how much he'd mastered the Scorched Palm. But that was when he realized that Rhilanor had changed.
A light glowed within him. His hair and his eyes were as dark as always, yet something within lit up their color. When he approached, he moved not with a warrior's strength, but with something greater. It seemed that the world itself did not touch him, the air and light sliding away to give him all the space he deserved.
Could he be the Hero? No, the Hero wasn't Rhilanor, Rhilanor was just his friend... yet he remembered the false hero from before. Melal grabbed his head, trying to set everything right.
"Don't worry, Melal. We're doing things right this time." Rhilanor put a hand on his shoulder and Melal found himself straightening, swelling with understanding. He pushed aside the doubts sneaking at the edges of his mind and focused on what mattered: the Hero was speaking to him, explaining their purpose.
"Are we going to fight the Deathspawn?"
"Yes, but not wildly. They have set up this prison to try to stop us, so direct attempts will be futile. We have to..." Rhilanor paused, closing his eyes tightly. After a time he opened them, certain again. "We need to begin with chaos."
"What?"
"We begin by sowing discord among the enemy. Break apart their plans to stop us. Then we will be able to forge an army of light and escape this prison."
Yes, that could work! Melal swallowed his excitement with great difficulty. "What should I do?"
"I need more time to gather all our forces... I need you to cause a distraction."
"Of course!" Melal nodded to the Hero and sped away. He glanced over his shoulder once and saw the Hero kneeling to the ground, eyes closed as if contemplating something. The light clung to him even more than before, suffusing his being.
Grinning, Melal searched for a good way to cause a distraction. When he spotted Hakkiv, he knew what he would do. The large Catai had continued to scorn him since their attempt at a fight, but that would change. Maybe not that day, but in time he would be strong enough. For now, he could test out all his training.
Melal grabbed the pickaxe from a worker's hands and ran with it, letting out a roar of challenge. It certainly got everyone's attention. Hakkiv turned to him in surprise, not moving quickly enough to draw his mace.
His leg snapped out, catching Melal in the stomach with a kick.
Tumbling backward, Melal hit the ground twice before he rolled to a stop. But the entire time, he kept hold of the pickaxe. The kick had knocked the wind out of him, but it hadn't caused as much injury as it would have before. Maybe he was getting closer.
"What is this about?" Hakkiv appeared over him, one huge leg coming down to pin his chest to the ground. "If you wanted to test yourself against me, you could have just asked."
"Die, Deathspawn!" Melal gripped the pickaxe with both hands and smashed it down, hitting the Catai in the kneecap as hard as he could.
The blow tore through the pants of his uniform and drew a bit of blood. Hakkiv growled and swatted the weapon out of his hands, but he couldn't stop Melal from laughing. He had drawn blood this time. Though Hakkiv might be stronger than him now, the gap between them was closing. If he was smart, Hakkiv would kill Melal now, but he wouldn't. If the Hero didn't kill the Catai during their escape, Melal would end his life eventually.
Around them, he could sense the uneasiness in everyone else, human or Deathspawn. Maybe they felt the Hero, maybe Melal's words had gotten through to them. Hakkiv scowled and picked him up by his shirt, but Melal only laughed.
~ ~ ~
In the depths of the mine, Slaten felt separated from the world. He was surrounded on all sides by black stone, the lanterns rendered feeble flickering motes in the shadows. Not only was this stone far harder to work through, everyone else agreed that it felt wrong. Several workers had refused to go down into the lower levels again and others constantly looked over their shoulders while they worked.
Though Slaten didn't feel anything unusual about the stone, he admitted that something was definitely wrong. None of the minerals they had been told to look for had appeared in any meaningful quantity. Instead they had found remnants of some past civilization, now even walls of black marble.
Perhaps the mansthein were lying to them about their purpose here. It was equally likely that someone else was lying to the mansthein. Kolanin had been increasingly distant over the past month, but when Slaten had spoken with him, he had seemed anxious and distracted.
Whatever the case, all Slaten could do was keep swinging his pickaxe. Though he had mastered the early stages of the Coran strength techniques, his body had refused to grow larger as many of theirs did, instead becoming more wiry. The Scorched Palm that Rhilanor had taught him worked perfectly, though, numbing his pain and increasing his endurance. Something about the technique made his sein twinge unpleasantly, but it was undeniably effective.
Thinking about the Rhen man made Slaten pause. He stopped working for a moment and realized there were sounds of a disruption from further down the tunnel that he hadn't been able to hear. Slaten rested his pickaxe on his shoulder and went to investigate.
There were several men assaulting a woman on the floor of the tunnel. Slaten started to move when he recognized them and paused.
The woman was Iralin and the men were all mansthein who worked in the tunnels. One of them had pinned her down with his weight and was ripping at her clothes while the others stood guard. They hadn't noticed him yet, but it was only a matter of seconds until they did.
His hand gripped the handle of his pickaxe tightly. Could he kill all of them? It wouldn't be easy, as all the workers in the tunnels had at least some strength. A few he thought only had the brute sein of workers, but others he knew were warriors. None of them had weapons, so the question was if the narrow corridors could work in his advantage.
Before he had decided on his plan of attack, someone came from the opposite direction. Safakiv, his eyes widening as he wandered in. All the mansthein turned to look at him except the one assaulting Iralin. After a long pause, he spoke in an unusually flat voice.
"What are you doing, boys?"
"Showing the arrogant bitch her place," one of them said, and a few others laughed. Slaten had expected Safakiv to laugh with them, but his eyes were hard.
That was when he noticed that the struggle on the ground wasn't what he thought it was. The man on top of Iralin shook, but not under his own power. Iralin's hand on his face now no longer looked like a desperate attempt to fend him off. Her fingers were only slightly bent, the sein in them so intense that Slaten tasted blood.
As the man began to gasp and shudder, everyone else noticed as well. His mottled skin was shifting to a less healthy color, puckering and cracking in multiple places. When Iralin rose to her feet, she lifted him by his head. Blood poured out of his mouth and down the front of his shirt until she discarded the corpse.
