Glade’s wisp of Arcara leaked out of his hand and wrapped around the sword, forming a wispy gray swirl around the weapon. Light glinted off the cutting edge, followed by a soft shhhing, like he’d scraped a pebble down the fuller.
The sword’s edge bit into Wren’s axehead, spewing sparks. A sword technique. He didn’t know what it was called, or what it did, or how it worked, but he knew how it felt.
Wren recoiled and stumbled back. Glade had to take his chance to defeat her. He leapt forwards, closing the distance and unleashing a barrage of swipes. Each blow she blocked, but he took a chip out of the axe with each swipe.
After a few seconds of holding the technique, his mouth felt parched. He wished he still had the flask of Stream water, but it was tucked into the horse’s saddlebags. Too far away.
Before he burned through the last of his mana, he lunged and impaled the flat of the axehead with such strength that the tip of his sword pierced through. He cut off the technique in the only way he could—by releasing his grip on the sword. First, however, he ripped the now-attached weapons out of Wren’s hands.
He made fists, preparing to continue the barrage with his empty hands, when he heard crunching gravel at the top of the gulley.
“Glade!” Pels shouted. “Get back!”
At once, the ratchety clicks of muskets cocking filled the gully. Along the edges of the gullies, a troop of humanoids in raggety garb emerged, all carrying muskets or flintlocks of some kind.
At their head was an orc—one of the twins from the resistance. The orc shouted, “Give up, hunter! Back off!”
Glade took a few steps back, so if the resistance did attack, he wouldn’t get hit by the barrage.
Wren raised her hands casually, then skipped back a few steps. “Right. That’s annoying. I’ll—”
The orc in the lead fired his musket, and the shot blasted into the ground between her feet. “Scram, or we’ll put a third eye in your forehead.”
Glade glanced around, looking for the largest piles of sawdust, and any other shards of wood she could use. Surely, she’d have a whip ready, and strike down the resistance fighters in a single blow.
Glade opened his mouth, ready to warn them, when Wren kicked the ground and turned about, then sprinted away down the gully.
A few slow claps echoed down the gully from behind him. He turned around, half expecting it to be Pels. Instead, he set his eyes on Perron. She walked between Pels and a sailor, resting a small musket on her shoulder. “Good work, boys.” Then, she leaned closer to Pels, and whispered, “I figured you’d gotten in trouble when you stopped bringing me ships.”
Pels snorted. “We got ourselves out of it, too. Nearly.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Glade said. He bent down and picked his sword up, but he didn’t sheath it. “I doubt the bounty hunter is done with us. She is still out there.”
Perron shook her head. “You did well, boy. There’s no Stream water out here, and she was using techniques like mad. I’d say you got her real flustered, and with no more Stream water, she backed right off.”
“Perron,” one of the orcs said. “Their ship. They’ll want it.”
Perron smiled, then turned back to Pels. “Now, we have your ship to retake, don’t we?”
Captain Pels nodded. “I’d be thankful for a hand.” He looked at Glade, then said, “Myrrir’s pirates took our ship back to the very inlet we left you in. Find Vayra and Nathariel and bring them there, and we’ll be ready to sail.”
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Fading in and out of consciousness, Vayra barely registered her movement as she trundled through the hallways of the Narvelpeare Facility. Something dragged her by her leg—the only leg she had left. It was probably Myrrir, though she couldn’t see him.
The thought made her retch. With what little focus she mustered, she tried to focus her Arcara on the site of her injuries, as if it might help. It only made her concentrate on the missing limbs, and combined with searing, unfathomable discomfort, there was…an invisible hand gripping her heart, making it shake and shudder. The feeling bled all around her body, and she just didn’t understand how to make it go away.
Sleep…that would be good enough…
One minute, she was sliding along the floor, drifting away from the control room. Everything went dark for a few moments, then she found herself in the hallway outside the canister-sealing room. Phasoné was screaming inside Vayra’s head still, but nothing she was saying made any sense.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Myrrir hauled her up to the top of the stairs at the canister’s base, holding only her ankle. For just a second, she looked back and met his gaze. Desperately, she breathed, “Is this what you want? Is it? Do you like Karmion? Do you want him to win?”
“I’ve only met him once.” Myrrir scoffed. “I know what I want.” He pulled her leg, about to heave her up and into the canister—through the ajar lid—but he stopped, then threw her ankle down. For a second, she thought she saw hesitation, until he turned back to the canister and set to work. He opened the Arcara-lock, then used the pulleys to hoist the top half of the canister back up.
Any second, he would trap her. She began to inch away, pushing herself with her one leg. She began to move in a circle, until she threw her body back the other direction. Her hand slipped in the trail of her own blood.
The effort made black specks whirl in front of her eyes, and her head felt like it was made of clouds. At any moment, she could drift away…and not have to think about anything anymore.
An image of her walking along at Karmion’s side flashed through her mind—the same vision she had seen in the Arcara-soaked storeroom.
But fading away was insufficient. She had so much left to do…so many more planets to see…
She pressed her eyes tight together, then kept pushing.
The ground shook, and she heard a distant boom. Vibrations shivered up her arm, and dust rained from the ceiling. Smoke swirled in the hallway ahead, and dust fell from the ceiling. She kept pushing herself towards the hallway.
By the time Myrrir caught up to her, she had made it to the doorway of the circular room. He shouted something—she couldn’t tell what—then began to run towards her.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, boy,” came a voice from down the hallway. Not Myrrir’s voice. “Best back off while you still can.”
Vayra fell flat on her stomach and looked up. Amidst the swirling smoke and dust, she spotted a dark silhouette in baggy pants and a sash. He held a spear in his hand, its head flaming like a torch.
Nathariel.
Myrrir growled and shouted something, then bounded forwards. He held his sword like he wanted to pin Vayra to the ground with it, but before he could get within two steps, Nathariel flicked his spear outwards. A bolt of flame, a concentrated beam of bright yellow-white light, blasted outwards and struck Myrrir in the chest.
Myrrir flew backwards across the room and came to a halt against the wall. His back left a crater on the impact point, and his chest smoked.
Nathariel bounded forward, holding his spear ahead of him. “It wasn’t a suggestion.” He pointed the weapon at Myrrir. Myrrir’s limbs began to glow orange, veins lighting up like they’d been set ablaze, but he leapt to his feet and took a fighting stance.
When Myrrir stomped his foot down, the glow in his veins faded. “That won’t work on a Commodore.”
“Aye, but it was worth a try. This will.” Nathariel swept his spear outwards, spinning it behind his neck and in two vast loops in front of him. Two crescent shaped blades of flame raced towards Myrrir.
Myrrir sliced the first crescent in half with his sword, but the second came moments later and struck him in the gut, searing away his waistcoat and charring his flesh. He shouted and patted out the burning fabric.
Nathariel closed the distance with one last leap, and when he landed, he lunged. His spear banged against Myrrir’s sword too fast for Vayra to comprehend. She could only make out blurring weapons.
She slapped the side of her head with her hand, trying to stay awake. Her rapid cycling had slowed the bleeding in her leg and arm, but she was still slowly leaking, and it didn’t sooth the pain. Gritting her teeth, she tried to turn around.
‘Vayra,’ Phasoné groaned. ‘Nathariel is…only one stage ahead of Myrrir, now. There’s a chance he loses. A chance.’
The Goddess was silent for a few seconds, before finally, she added, ‘The barrel. If Myrrir locks Nathariel in it…’
The barrel, previously intended for Vayra, was still open. Its top was suspended by pulleys, ready to slam down at a moment’s notice and trap someone. She pulled the collar of her robe up and pressed it between her teeth, then hauled herself back towards the barrel as the two God-heirs clashed on the other side of the room.
When she reached the step ladder, she tried to crawl onto it, subconsciously expecting her right leg to be there. She only had half a thigh. She gasped, then fell hard on her chin. For a few seconds, everything went black. When the specks cleared, she blinked furiously, then bit into her collar harder and kept pushing.
When she reached the top of the ladder, she tried reaching for the Arcara-enchanted lock on the side of the barrel. It was a small panel, laced with a complex knot of starsteel wires and insulated with a sheet of glass. A shimmer of Arcara flowed along the wire in a loop—probably placed there by a blacksmith God-heir and left to circulate.
First, she tried to shatter the panel with a punch, but while her mind told her that her right arm still existed, the stump at her bicep only shook. Again, she gasped, then pressed her eyes shut.
Taking a deep breath, she reached out and struck the glass panel with her left hand until the thin pane shattered. The starsteel filaments, un-insulated, already began to bleed Arcara out of their loop. Vayra grabbed them and tugged them out, destroying the circuit—and the lock altogether.
She slumped down and landed on her chest, unable to control her landing in any other way.
Nathariel bashed Myrrir with an overhead strike, knocking the jade sword away, then swatted upwards with his spear’s shaft. Myrrir retaliated with a heavy swipe that knocked Nathariel back.
The man stumbled. He leaned back on the lower half of the barrel, panting. Myrrir jumped up and cut the top half of the barrel free again. It crashed down, clamping Nathariel’s arm.
Without the Arcara lock in place, Nathariel threw the top half of the barrel off with easy. He lashed out with a palm strike, flinging Myrrir into the wall.
The wall, already weakened, collapsed. It crumbled away, falling in chunks down towards the lava flow below.
The molten river ate away at the facility, and along with the walls, a section of the floor crumbled. Half of the stone fell away beneath Myrrir’s feet, and he stumbled backwards.
A primal fear lit up in his eyes, and he reached forwards desperately. Nathariel spat at his feet, then tapped him gently on the forehead. Myrrir fell backwards, disappearing behind a wall of smoke and sparks.
Turning back to face Vayra, Nathariel rushed over. He grabbed her shoulder tightly, as if he was about to scold her. But he only scowled, then said, “It is time to leave. Now. Do not resist, or you will not live.”