As soon as the blast of wind flung Pirin away, Myraden knew who to expect. Her head whipped side-to-side, and she backed up until Kythen’s fur brushed against her back. She threw off her coat—it’d only get in the way, and there was no need to pretend they belonged with the company anymore.
Khara’s boar smashed through the wall in front of them, scattering wood chips and shards across the floor. A split-second later, a burst of red boar Essence ripped the wall apart, and Khara sprinted through.
Neither of them said anything. Myraden ripped her spear off her shoulder and straightened it, and Khara drew her sword. They clashed, weapons glowing red and trailing sparks of red. When they collided, they let off sparks and pulses of force.
Khara used a fortification technique, and Myraden matched her. Their weapons whirled faster than mortal eyes could perceive. The first time they clashed, the windows beside them shattered. The second time, the remaining shards of glass were pulverized into dust.
The hallway wasn’t as tight as the ship’s was, but she still didn’t have free rein to swing her spear. She loosened the haft into a flexible rope and used it as a rope dart, flicking it side to side and out and back.
Kythen kicked the boar, and he tried to ram Khara, but the boar scrambled back to its feet and bowled into Kythen’s flank. The two tussled, and Myraden felt every hit Kythen took.
But Khara was a Blaze. Her channels were stronger, and the Essence she fed her body and fortification techniques was stronger.
She batted Myraden’s spearhead up with ease. Myraden manifest Essence along the haft of her spear and flooded any point of impact with red bloodhorn Essence, but that only kept the silk from ripping.
Khara whirled into Myraden’s range and lunged. Her sword grazed past the edge of Myraden’s armour. The cutting edge made a tinnnnng as it scraped the armour.
Then Khara struck her in the chest with an Essence-enhanced fist. Tusks of boar Essence glimmered on her knuckles. Myraden’s armour absorbed most of the Essence and vented it out the side, but she still tumbled backward from the force of the impact and skidded along the ground.
“We could’ve been friends, you know!” Khara yelled. “In another world, we would’ve been!”
Myraden spat blood on the floor and pushed herself back up. “Not with someone like you.”
She wiped her mouth and spun her spear, then pointed it at Khara. They could keep fighting, but eventually, Khara would overwhelm her.
Her core needed to advance. Fighting was supposed to help it. It needed an impetus, right?
With a shout, she charged back into the fray.
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Nomad slunk around the facility, watching everything from afar. It was a marvellous place, though a little leaky and dingy.
He partially wished he’d come up with the idea to create an army of wraiths, but there was no way he’d have had the resources to pull it off.
He had just…trained people. One of them turned out to be a monster, and it was time to set things right.
Pulled his hood up over his head, he slipped out onto the top of the dome. He slunk around through the darkness. When he passed each roof-mounted ballista, he slashed the bowstring with a wedge of wind. He popped critical nails out of flak catapults so they’d collapse when someone tried to use them.
But that wasn’t what he was concerned about. Lady Neria was the type of person to burn everything down instead of letting someone else have it. The facility had other countermeasures, and Nomad just needed to find them.
As he walked a ring around the outside of the circle, he extended his spiritual senses. He couldn’t sense any arcane traps, but Lady Neria wouldn’t use those.
His perception only delivered a vague warning when it drifted over the domed roof of the main sewing facility. Bulbous objects covered in inactive runes.
Alchemical bombs, his Familiar said. They have to be. This place is rigged to blow.
Nomad scrambled up the side of the dome, manipulating the wind to hold himself tight to the slippery shingles and titanwood. Below, flares of Essence alerted him to a fight between two Blazes and two Flares. His disciples had gotten into trouble—as expected. But they could get themselves out of it.
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They just needed an extra push.
If the entire facility goes up in a column of flame, they won’t advance, his Familiar reminded him.
“Yes, I reckon so…”
He plunged his fist down into the roof of the facility. If it was going to explode, the chain reaction would start here—these bombs would fall from the roof, and as they passed through the energy fields of the world, the runes would activate. It would set them off, then bombs in the stilts, and the rest of the facility would fall into the waves.
He ripped shingles and beams off, enough that he could fit through, then dropped down into the attic of the dome. Wooden spheres filled a dark chamber. They creaked and groaned as the facility shifted, and the ropes holding them up swayed, but they didn’t move fast enough to fuel the runes.
Alchemical bombs needed a small runic explosion to get their fiery chain reaction going. It was enough to mix the fluids around inside, and fast enough to trigger an explosion.
There was no better way to disable them than to destroy their runes. Nomad pulled his arm back, then thrust a blast of wind out around his hand. He targeted the closest bomb—a sphere ten feet across, with runes scripted all across its exterior. If any Essence leaked into the wind, he might accidentally activate the runes, so he kept a careful lock on where it was and what it was doing.
The wind blasted around the sphere so quickly that it eroded the surface away within a minute. Sawdust gathered in the air, and it turned the wind into sandpaper. It gathered in the air, forming a vaguely feline outline—now visible with the sawdust—and swirled around the room. Nomad planted his feet down on the walkway, steadying himself, then thrust both arms outward.
Wind flooded into the room, empowering his technique further. It washed past him for a few seconds, making his cloak shudder and hood flutter. When the air calmed (back to its normal, outside-level gale), the bombs all had smooth, polished surfaces. No runes whatsoever.
Nomad nodded in satisfaction. If Lady Neria tried to destroy the facility, she’d only end up dropping a few inert balls of wood on the floor.
He climbed out of the attic and back out onto the roof, then set his hand on his staff. He was about to climb down and observe his disciples when his senses cried out in warning. Something was approaching from the north, and it was approaching fast.
He whirled to face the new threat. Another airship prowled through the sheets of rain. Flashes of lightning made its tattered envelope and sails shimmer in the darkness, and if he hadn’t known better, he’d have said it was a ghost ship.
It’s not, his Familiar said. It’s absolutely not.
Nomad scratched the racoon-cat between its ears. “It’s a good thing I know better, hm?”
Not a good thing. That airship does not bear good things.
Nomad felt the presence of two Wildflames aboard that airship. Two Unbound Lords.
He swallowed, and for the first time in years, he felt truly nervous. “Aye,” he whispered. “If we don’t stop them, they’ll kill our apprentices.”
Two at once?
“I don’t have a better plan. If we don’t hold them off, Pirin and Myraden are done for.”
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The Red Hand laid in a bed, staring up at the ceiling and slowly recovering his strength.
He was getting too old for this. His body didn’t heal as fast or cleanly as it once did, and even if it did, what did it matter?
He knew his mindset affected his healing. A positive outlook and a goal to strive for were important for anyone. But there was no need for any of that, not anymore.
There was no way this ended with everything going back to normal.
“Kovar,” said Mr. Ysare, the apothecary, “you must rest. Sit up for a moment and drink the remedy.”
The Red Hand pushed himself up. He still wore his tattered black coat, but was clean now, and it wouldn’t infect his bandaged wounds—any more than they already were. Sunlight poured in through the attic window, shining right into his eyes, and dust swirled above his head. It probably would have smelled of rot and mould if not for the sickly, dead smell of his infections.
“You are a mortal man, Kovar,” Mr. Ysare said. “You will not heal like a wizard.” He was a Seissen man, about the same age as the Red Hand. His hair, in a high bun, was going grey, and he wore a stained apron. In his gnarled hands, which looked like they belonged to someone twice as old (...or maybe just a few decades older), held a bowl of steaming liquid.
The Red Hand took his daily dose of medicine. He swallowed the bitter, green bile with a grimace. “Thank you, Mr. Ysare.”
Mr. Ysare was silent for a few seconds. The Hand was expecting a ‘you’re welcome’, but none came. Finally, Mr. Ysare said, “You fought the imperial guard, from what I gather? It’s been twenty years, Kovar, since I last saw you, and this is the first I hear of you?”
“Since you left Seisse,” the Hand said bitterly. “To a land that hates your very existence.”
“Since I left home in search of better prospects.” Mr. Ysare motioned around. “Sure, I may not have all the rights of an ostal, but there are many men in Rasis Nureans-Ost, and among them, I am a respected apothecary.”
The Hand Shut his eyes and shuddered.
“What did you do, Kovar?” Ysare said. “You served the Emperor. Anything I’ve done, you’ve done ten times worse.” He snatched the bowl back. “What happened to you, hm? How’d you become this?”
The Hand let off a soft chuckle. “I serve peace. For the world, for Seisse, and for myself. I saw the cost of rebellion, and I cannot let it continue. As the emperor’s enforcer, I could do that.” He sighed. “But I am mortal, and there must come a time when a man settles down. I needed to end my quest with my honour intact, and with peace maintained.”
He envisioned a cottage on the coast, of a sun setting behind the waves.
But there was no retiring now. Even if he brought the heir’s head to the Emperor, it wouldn’t change anything.
“If you say so,” Mr. Ysare grumbled. He stood up and shook his head. “When you are better—I give it a few weeks—you must leave here. I will not harbour a fugitive any longer than I have to.”