The Path of Destruction (Rune Breaker) (16 page)

“Brin was a surprise tonight. In my time with her, I just took her as a good hand with a polearm with some good combat spells. But if she can cut off
nekras
...”

“She will be doing me a favor.” Lord Crossius interrupted. “There are dozens of devotees of the Threefold Moon on this island now, channeling and converting
nekras
for their spellcraft. Breaking their connection at a crucial moment can only afford me greater security. And in the meantime, I will mostly be concerned with
vitae, psi
and
vox
.”

Layaka gave him an odd look, but knew that what he said of his plans was the extent of what she would be hearing. “If that's your assessment, I can't challenge it. Now the ang'hailene—“

“Leave the girl to me. She requires special attention.” Lord Crossius cut her off again. “Tell me what you've ascertained about the Rune Breaker.”

She hunched her shoulders and bowed her head in thought for a moment. Head still lowered, with her hair falling into her eyes, she said, “Most people seeing what we just saw: him going up against and matching Bashurra in a place so barren of outside energy; they'd say 'we know he's the Rune Breaker now'. But I have to say that my eyes tell me I'm still not sure.”

“I am.” said Lord Crossius, “But say on.”

Layaka looked back at the image from the battle with a frown. “He conjured a simulacrum out of
akua
, the most convenient energy and used it to buy time; probably to chant that unstable spell. Then he mass-broke the mentalisms Bashurra used—but after that, it was all shapeshifting. Taken with how easily he was defeated in Daire City, and I have my doubts that he's the legendary weapon that lets its wielder take over nations.”

After carefully setting the tuning fork in his hands on the armrest of the throne, Lord Crossius leaned forward and interlaced his long, thin fingers. “Noted. And I already have a countermeasure in the works. But as a soldier, you of all people should know that the weapon is only as powerful as the will that guides it.”

Suddenly, the tones from the two tuning forks on either side of the bowl changed to something shrill and discordant. The image above the bowl distorted and disappeared as cracks began to run rampant across the bowl's surface. The noise reached its height just as the bowl flew apart in a glittering explosion of crystal shards.

They would have cut the three occupants of the room to ribbons if Lady Milfune had not stepped forward with inhuman celerity, producing a war fan from one voluminous sleeve, and snapped it open. With one sweep, she set a powerful gale against the flying crystal, sending the dangerous projectiles scattering to the other side of the room.

In the silence that followed, all three tuning forks began to smolder and deform until they were useless.

Lord Crossius picked up the one on his throne and tossed it casually aside. “But we must never underestimate the Rune Breaker. That would prove to be a fatal miscalculation.”

***

Immurai was monitoring the entire battle.
Ru reported through the link.

Taylin heard the sound of something heavy moving through the grass; the drying stalks scrapping against scales. She looked up to find a great constrictor snake slithering in her direction. As she watched, it raised its head above the ground and its body folded unnaturally beneath it. Scales became cloth or softened to skin or hair until Ru Brakar hovered scant inches in the air before her.

“I have destroyed his means of doing so.” he continued aloud. Then he met her gaze, his yellow eyes betraying little emotion. “Care to explain what that was earlier? It barely felt like your mind in the link.”

Drawing her wings up tighter around her, she broke eye contact to look over to where Tal Eserin and a battlemage were tending to Percival's wounds. “I don't like being touched.”

“A mistake I doubt Bashurra will make again.” Ru said and sent a small working of
vin
to scatter the ashes further than the natural wind was doing.

They remained silent for several minutes. Taylin's mind clicked away in the link, working through her lingering adrenaline and anxiety over what had happened. Ru merely kept watch, not believing that the ignoble defeat of Bashurra the Crevasse was the extent of Immurai's attack.

Eventually, Tal Eserin left Percival in the care of the battlemage and came to them with a serious, but not grave expression on his face. Nodding to Ru, he focused on Taylin. “The General will live. Thanks to the scarcity of
vitae
here, he probably won't be walking on his own for a few days, and if we don't get him properly healed soon, he might not walk without a stick ever again. But he doesn't need that to lead.”

Refusing to meet his eyes, Taylin demurred and nodded. “Good. I'm glad.”

Tal Eserin scratched his scaled neck with his brutal looking claws and fixed his gaze out over the river. “I told you before that I wouldn't ask, and now that you have slain the king's killer and saved the life of the General, I have less right to ask than before...”

“But you're curious.” said Taylin. She heaved a sigh and fluffed out her feathers. “And so is Ru. Brin and Rai will be as well—to say nothing of Kaiel. And... and you all deserve to know who and what you're really dealing with.”

Brushing a few red curls out of her eyes, she slowly got to her feet. “The problem is: I don't know—not the whole of it anyway. But I will tell you what I do know. Just... I don't want to explain it twice. Can you please wait until our friends return from the homestead?”

“Of course. At your leisure.” said Tal Eserin. “General Cloudherd has put Jaks in command with me as his second until he is fit for duty, so I would like to invite all of you to join our camp and share our supplies tonight.”

A weak smile forced its way onto Taylin's face. “Thank you. I think we'll take you up on that. But first...” She returned Novacula Kuponya to its sheath and looked around. “Ru? Can you please help me find the Eastern Brand? I dropped it when... when it happened.”

“Yes, Miss Taylin.” the dark mage replied before transforming into a white owl and winging skyward to search.

***

Breathing was more difficult than Brin ever imagined it could be in the first moment after the spirit of Idarian Homestead vacated her body. She was left on her hands and knees, chest heaving while her breath came in shuddering gasps.

Around her, the ranks of ghosts were starting to thin. For some the cleansing was enough to free them of their last mortal bonds. For others, the feeling of vengeance delivered that came with Bashurra's death was what they needed. They disappeared to the Afterworld in brief flashes that quickly faded to nothingness.

Others remained, however, and crowded around her. They were those who were still addled by the violence of their deaths and exposure to the thick concentration of
nekras
. The two things combined to completely foul the natural instincts of the dead to move on. For them, a push in the right direction was needed, either through proper funeral rights, divine intervention, or exorcism.

Cold hands were reaching for her when Brin looked up; hands connected to pleading eyes and murmuring voices. Though still shaking from the unbearable amounts of discarnate energy she'd been a conduit for, she reached out to them in turn. It was a very small task to exorcise the willing.

Brin reached into the place where their hearts would be and channeled tiny sparks of discarnate power: beacons that showed them the way they had to travel to return to the Well of Souls. Each time she did this, the ghost flashed out of the mortal plane with a joyful noise.

After long minutes of work, Brin finally turned her attention to a middle-aged woman whose shade wore a bloody, tattered dress and wielded a shovel in both hands, only to have the ghost shy away from its salvation.

“Don't do this...” Brin whispered. Resistance to exorcism was a sign of a ghost with strong fetters to the mortal plane. They were more difficult to send into the Well and a danger of becoming a more malevolent form of undead unless properly tended. “I don't have enough left in me right now to fight you. Don't...”

The dead woman clutched the shovel to her chest. The spectral instrument glistened with the memory of demonic ichor—she had wounded one of her killers at the very least before dying. “Please.” she spoke in an airy voice that echoed from far away. “The children...”

Brin looked around. There were no child spirits left. But now that she thought of it, there had been too few for a village of that size if everyone had been killed in the first place. While they may have crossed over immediately, or never left a spirit at all, Brin grasped at a small hope, both for her sake and for the ghost's. “They're not here.” she said carefully.

The ghost nodded slowly, tentatively. “Sent them... through the run. To the bridge.”

“The run...” Brin wondered aloud before it hit her. Farming out on the frontier was a dangerous prospect: that was why they had mystically grown walls and small standing armies with everyone trained with a weapon. Spirit beasts, invading armies, and (it seemed) demons were a very real threat to their survival.

Given the constant danger, many copied the thieves' runs found in large cities: tunnels underground with highly secure and hidden entrances on either side. In the event of an attack, those who couldn't fight had a small chance to escape and hopefully survive the wild long enough to reach another town or armed caravan.

This new information bolstered Brin's hopes. “Yes, the run. I can check it for you; make sure the children are safe... or at peace.”

“Thank you.” said the shade. Lowering the spade, she drew closer, ready to be sent into the Well.

Brin hesitated. “Before I send you, I have a question.” The ghost cocked her head, curious. Brin licked her lips before asking the question she'd come to the Homestead to ask. “Were any of the girls here called 'Layaka?”

A glimmer of recognition danced in the ghost's eyes. “Yes...” she paused, making an effort to recall memories that would have been top of mind in life. “The smith's daughter. She was... to take them.”

Her gaze turned toward the river, and despite the houses, wall and distance in the way, it was as if she could see the bridge and the hidden exit to the run. It didn't take any special connection to the spirit world to understand that.

“Thank you.” Brin murmured, reaching up toward the spirit's heart. In a flash, the shade was released from its fetters in the mortal world and was free to sink into the Afterworld where it would begin its journey to the Well. With a loud sigh, Brin hunched back to the ground, alone at last.

Or so she thought.

“The death of Bashurra the Crevasse. There will be songs about this one. I'll probably write a book about it when I get back to Harpsfell.”

Kaiel was coming up the main path that led from the houses out past the fields and eventually to the gate. A sphere of light hung over his shoulder, shedding illumination all around him. The flute was in his hand and his rifle slung over his shoulder.

Brin smiled, and not just for his presence. No matter how well and truly tapped she felt, there was also a goodness and a warmth there that always came with putting lost souls to rest. And, she had to admit, there was also some in seeing the handsome chronicler.

That smile only lasted as long as it took for him to come close enough for his light to fall on her. It was only then that she remembered that she had the ring off and her true form was on display for Kaiel. With a troubled cry, she backed out of the light and dashed for cover. She found it behind a rain barrel.

Kaiel froze where he was, confusion and traces of hurt evident on his shadowed face. “Brin?”

Even concealed behind the barrel, she pulled her cloak up around her and over her head. “Kaiel, I... please say you didn't see too much.”

“I can have seen as much or as little as you wish.” He said, the hurt draining away from his face. Taking a few more steps forward, he stooped and came up with something that glinted silver under the light hovering over his shoulder. “But I have to say that the efforts to obfuscate it might have been worse than you imagined.”

After thoroughly patting her pockets, Brin muttered a curse. The succubus ring wasn't on her person.

Kaiel examined the ring thoughtfully. “This must have been very expensive: it takes a very skilled spellcrafter to make a succubus ring that's undetectable.”

Left with no choice, Brin thrust her hand out around the barrel. “Hand it here. Please.”

He held the ring out in the middle of his palm. “Here it is. Come take it.”

“You know I can't.” replied Brin. “This isn't something to jest about, Kaiel.”

“No, I believe not.” Kaiel shucked off his coat and laid it out on the ground before sitting down on it to resume examining the ring. “Brin... do you know where the original succubus rings came from?” When the only response he got was an unhappy growl that a human or elven throat couldn't have managed, he shrugged and continued.

“In the Age of Tragedies, there was an extremely vain King who ruled a kingdom in what is now Mindeforme. He had eight children, and all but the youngest daughter were, in his opinion, terribly ugly. So ugly that he refused to marry such as them off until they could be made beautiful. To that end, he offered the hand of the youngest and truly beautiful princess to whomever in the kingdom managed to make it so.

“One of those trying to win the hand of the princess was an unscrupulous mage who specialized in summoning. With his power, he reached across the void to the red moon, Mayana and plucked from that most terrible and merciless land, seven demons.”

Brin peeked around the barrel to watch him tell the story as only a member of the Bardic College could. It wasn't just the words, but the gestures and expressions that made them the best storyspinners on Ere.

“They weren't like the creations of the Threefold Moon,” Kaiel said, playing with the ring in his hands, “These were creatures who mirrored the darkness of mortal hearts: vanity, lust, superficial avarice—that is what a succubus is; its very essence. The mage destroyed them and forged their dark souls into seven beautiful rings of fine silver. Whosoever donned those rings would not only become inherently beautiful to whoever saw them, but gained powers of persuasive speech like the demons trapped inside.