Airlean Tales S2E30: Venarei Morben (3)

Azalea was dozing peacefully on the roof of the Marketway when the Warmonger Dominion erupted.

Or so it seemed as she scrambled awake. She felt the mana instability before anything else—a rippling torrent that pulsed from the distance and coiled around her gut, writhing like a basket of worms. She gasped and curled into a ball, struggling to master the nausea.

Oh, this was awful. Only one other memory could compare to this level of instability. The manacraft of her brother, Azure, who was raised by beasts and fought for survival in the icy mountains of the Noadic Range since childhood. He Formed without a thought of how he would control his own craft, often resulting in an environment of permanent, deadly chaos.

And even Azure’s craft was different from this—where his Forms exuded youth and aggression, this aura was old. Very old. There was a bitterness to it like old lemon peel, a rancidness like fermentation.

Decay, came the word belatedly. As if evil itself was rising from the dead.

Azalea turned aside to Wes. Her heart twinged a little as she did. He looked so peaceful, curled on this rooftop with a sprawling vantage of Atlantis’s gleaming marble, classical sculptures, and vivacious oceanic vegetation. There was no shadow of his great father to cast over him here, no threat of eviction from his workshop or inheritance disputes from his brothers or patent disruptions from those who hated his noble status. Here, he was only a burgeoning young inventor, full of promise and potential. Azalea wished in her deepest of hearts that he could stay here and thrive—just as a part of her wished she could stay shut away in his workshop, mixing teas and baking pastries.

But sometimes fate had other plans.

“Wes,” Azalea whispered urgently, shaking his shoulder. “It’s happening, Wes.”

He stirred quickly. He used to be a slow riser, groggy and lethargic, his head too full of brilliant ideas to start quickly—but the Storm had taken that from him since the Battle of Havenport. No one slept lightly anymore. Not even children.

“Where?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “The mistlore? Thought it was over.”

“No—no.” Another wave of that terrible energy nearly bowled Azalea over and she hunched, retching. When Wes’s face went ashen and he reached for her, worried, she pointed past him. “There’s, there’s something over there.”

Wes turned, and just in time. The domed roof of one of tallest buildings split open. Light pierced the sky in sweeping rays of white, illuminating a bestial shape like a spider, many bony limbs curling out from a twisted carapace of a body.

The light flashed again, a bolt of white in the dark. Thunderous noise struck the surface beneath Azalea’s feet and rattled up her spine. Mana boiled in the air as if lit aflame.

Wes’s jaw slackened. “It feels like a corruption. A strong corruption.”

“I—I think it is. It feels too similar.”

Wes cursed and yanked aggressively at the laces on his boots. “Damned prince,” he was muttering. “Said it’d be fine. We’re just kids, are we? Kids who’ve faced the Storm, kids who have to slay dragons? Still couldn’t trust us. Now look where we are, a Class Five right under our noses, worse off than ever.”

Azalea bit her lip. “I’m sure he cares and just didn’t want to worry us.”

“I know he cares. That’s his problem. He cares too much.” Wes grimaced. “Even the greatest leader can’t care about everything. Thinking and planning and luck can only bring you so far. To protect some pieces, you have to sacrifice others. That’s just how life is.”

“It shouldn’t be that way.”

Wes hesitated and looked at her. Whatever he saw made his face soften. “It shouldn’t. But here we are, a Hunter and a battle ingeniator. The first pieces on the field, the first to protect others.”

Azalea’s throat swelled painfully. Her fingers absently reached out to trace the gentle outline of Wes’s precious, kind, determined face. The thought of him being in danger again, of seeing that face bloodied or glassy-eyed, was unbearable every time. Yet how many times had they found themselves in this exact situation? And how many times more would it continue?

Wes captured her hand with his. The warmth of his calluses pressed into the pads of her fingers. “Do you want to walk away?” he said softly. “We could find the Warmonger’s protection. Shelter somewhere safe, like they probably want us to.”

She laughed wetly and shook her head. “Don’t be silly.”

“And you know I won’t go without you.”

“I know.”

He linked their hands, tight as thread. Bound to the end. “Windsoles? Starshooter?”

“Right here.”

“Then let’s fly.”

She squeezed his hand. “Together.”

And in clean, brilliant arcs like shooting stars, two small pawns leapt bravely for the battlefield.

Stone exploded from beneath Halcyon’s feet as giant abyssal vines shot from the soil, crumpling a chunk of coliseum wall like mulch. A volley of thorns hailed from the sky; he whirled his glaive in quick arcs, warding them off in a symphony of metal. Above him, Rathos’s vile, ethereal form lazily hovered, a shadow blotting out the distant light of the Kardeia, a black star. He seemed all but invincible.

Through the onslaught of blighted plants and abyssal magic, Halcyon’s eyes darted across the field, searching.

Where was Xiph?

Mathias had implied that she’d submitted to bloodthirst to fight Rathos directly, yet there was no sign of her. The handful of wounds she’d managed to inflict on him were already closing up. The Warmonger, as the ultimate combatant, was known to bear one of the most powerful ensigns. How had the Harvester walked away with barely a scratch?

Halcyon caught no sight of the familiar coral-red hair, nor the rancid curdle of Warmonger blood magic. Only flashes in the sky of Korone, who darted like lightning across the field, the point of her spear shredding miasmic bulbs and dusky venomous flowers. The girl had gone quiet and focused, her face pale but determined. Yet with every bud she destroyed, three more took their place, blooming in dangerous defiance.

Korone disengaged and sailed over to Halcyon, drawing a silver arc through the sky. She was clearly an expert hand with her steed; she looped skillfully between the thorns that collapsed on her like a curtain of arrows. But when she landed before him, he saw her true disposition. Coated in sweat, spear-hand shaken, lips thin and trembling.

“This isn’t working.” Her words were bubbling together in the beginnings of panic. “I can’t remove the echoes fast enough. He’s getting stronger, and we’re nowhere close to cracking his defenses. We need—we need at least a hundred more of our best, but the pods, they’ll be at the border for the abyssals—”

“Korone.”

She clamped her mouth shut.

“We’re going to be fine. Just keep culling the echoes as you can.” Halcyon laid a hand on her shoulder. “Leave the rest to me.”

Wonder eclipsed her face for a second, and she bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Lord Leventis. I’ll keep my composure.”

“Go.”

She darted away, a speck of white floating on midnight sky.

Halcyon was glad she’d left quickly. He didn’t know how long he could have lied to her. But panicked soldiers helped no one, and Halcyon had learned in his career as a Hunter that as long as he kept on a brave face, nobody truly knew how unfavorable the situation was. No one except Karis, perhaps—she fully understood this burden, taking it on herself in countless battles. Too many times did she force herself upright, despite limping and retching and dragging her rapier with bloodied hands, and declare that victory is only one step away, should you be brave enough to take it.

Not for the first time, Halcyon was keenly aware of the absence of Karis’s blade at his side. Where was she? Off investigating something discreetly, apparently. But the Karis he knew would have never skipped the chance to face down a marvelous opponent. Surely she had noticed the commotion by now. Unless…

Any darker thoughts were interrupted by waves of gnarled roots and brambles that burst from the tortured earth, strangling the arena in a filthy web. Vines grasped skyward, weaving inch by inch into a grand dome that eclipsed the dominion, claiming both land and sky for the divine might of the Harvester.

A turned senator is as good as a demigod, Orion. The voice of an old sibling was faded and distant in Halcyon’s memory, but unmistakably there. They can wield nature. Spin reality. Decimate armies in an instant.

Not so different from a Class Five corruption. But against the Class Fives on the shores of Airlea, Halcyon had access to allies who could handle the heralds, mitigate casualties, divert attention.

What can I find? His eyes scoured the arena for answers. Think. Think, you idiot!

A vine as thick as a pillar slammed above Halcyon’s head, raining rubble down on him. Quick arcs of his glaive sent the rubble spiraling harmlessly away, but he felt no relief. The earth churned as roots snaked underground and thrashed from below, slowly congealing into ambling blights of shifting brambles, poisonous thistles, razor leaves.

Halcyon gritted his teeth and blazed his manawell. Swaths of water roared forth, tearing across the arena and rupturing the network of roots that fed Rathos’s power. Trees groaned, toppling into the frothing torrent with an eruption of bark and timber.

For one breathtaking second, the knot of roots was split in two, as if from the cleave of an axe.

Then quick as a blink, they knitted back together. Not even a scratch marred the bark.

Halcyon sighed. As he feared—the root system had spread too far into the dominion. Rathos was siphoning power from far outside this arena, granting him regeneration to the point of invincibility. A blow that would’ve shattered any other battlefield hadn’t even made the senator turn his head.

“What’s with the long face?” called a voice from overhead. “I thought the First Hunter enjoyed a challenge.”

Halcyon looked up. Figures dropped from the night sky, landing silently like raindrops with gentle swells of their windsoles. There was the sharp, lean lines of Lilian Forsythe’s half-plate; the billow of Sethis Lunaren’s radiant cloak; then the two smaller forms of Azalea Fairwen and Wesley Geppett, still arrayed in fine dress and shell wreaths from Florenhost festivities.

The relief that flooded him quickly cleared into alarm as he remembered how close they all were to a corrupted senator.

Halcyon jerked his chin and fired his windsoles, arcing cleanly over the mangled, man-eating ivy-ridden walls of the arena, knowing they would follow. A sharp whistle was enough to catch Korone’s attention; he saw the white gleam of her steed pivot in the air, then soar to meet them.

He stopped in a large plaza where a ring of sandpits surrounded a striking circular platform of black marble mottled with golden veins. During peacetime, the sandpits saw endless tournaments as Warmonger warriors fought for glory, gold, or simply to quench their boredom. Back in the day, the Warmonger senator would select their consort from the victors. But now the sandpits lay silent, a few sparse abyssal fronds nodding their heads from between cracks in the decorative tiles.

Halcyon turned as his companions landed on the platform in an orderly circle, like a shadow of a war council. He probably shouldn’t tell them how much blood had been spilled on this marble. It was the stage of honor for tournament finalists, show matches, duels of glory.

Hearing the heavy flap of wings turned his mind back to the present. “What is it?” Korone said, sliding quickly off her pegasus. “The more time we spend chatting, more time the Harvester gets to—oh, hey, who are all these people? Airleans?”

“We might as well take the time to deliberate,” Halcyon said. “Nothing we’ve done so far has held Rathos’s attention. A new strategy is our best shot.”

He looked over his reinforcements, warmed by their presence, but still searching. Azalea frowned, puzzled, but a small smile pulled up Wes’s mouth.

“Looking for Lady Caelute?” he said casually.

“We need all the hands we can get,” Halcyon said evasively, pulling his focus back together. “But looks like we’ll have to make do.”

He stepped forward and raised his voice, reaching for a tone that hopefully conveyed confidence, defiance, unshakable bravery.

“I’ll be quick: it’s dire. You might think the creature hovering over the Amphitheater is a Class Five, and you wouldn’t be far off. Senator Rathos Antheos Vathalos, the Harvester, has been transformed into a corruption that could level the entire dominion to dust overnight. Xiph has evacuated most of the population farther to the borders, but that won’t do much if we can’t stop him.”

Wes stiffened. “Wait, that corruption was once a human? But everything with an innate manawell has resistance to corruption. That’s why the Storms only turn animals, not people.”

“That’s usually true. Senators are a…special case.” He couldn’t tell them the details even if he wanted to. “I’ll have Xiph explain the rest to you, if we get out alive. But for now, Rathos’s reach is all over the dominion. He’s not using much power offensively, but he’s shored up regeneration that’s not possible to force through.” Begrudgingly, he added: “Even for me.”

Korone paled in horror at the thought of even the almost Arbiter Sovereign being powerless. But Azalea only looked pensive.

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said. When all eyes turned to her, she blushed. “Oh—pardon, Lord Halcyon, I didn’t mean to question—”

“Explain, Fairwen. Confidence.”

She straightened. “I mean…Senator Rathos is gathering power from all over the dominion, yes. But it’s mostly consolidating in three big places. That’s where the mana activity, and instability, is the highest.”

Three places meant three clear targets. It meant a defined mission. It was very welcome news, compared to lobbing random spells at Rathos and hoping something stuck.

“And you can sense where these places are, precisely?” Halcyon asked.

“Definitely,” Azalea said in a rare moment of absolute certainty. But if anyone in the kingdom could find a stink like that, it would be her. “I think if we struck down those three big, ah, nests or cores, the rest would fall—like pulling on a loose thread and unraveling the whole sweater.”

“That’s welcome boon, to be sure,” Sethis said, “but we would have to dismantle all three nearly simultaneously, no? Or the regeneration would outpace us.”

“Can we even do that?” Wes mused. “Three parties, each strong enough to take down a nest? If they’re like leylines, we should expect them to be swarming with corruptions.”

Lilian waved a hand. “Seth and I could probably take one. How about the other two?”

The exhaustion briefly cleared from Korone’s face, and the familiar gleam returned to her eye. “My pod! I mean, the rest of my unit should be coming at any moment. We’re not much match for a senator, but we should be able to clear out the nest and its abyssals.”

“Good,” Sethis said. “And the last one? What of the other Tidebreaker pods?”

Korone pondered for a grand total of one second. “Mm, no. They’d definitely die. Third Pod is a special case—the other pods aren’t really meant for landfighting.”

Lilian crooked a brow. “So. The Warmonger’s Dominion, lauded for its prowess in battle, has only a single unit combat-ready for a corrupted senator? What, will you rely on foreigners to win the glory for you?”

Korone reddened, and Sethis muttered a very quiet, “Lilian.”

“It’s not that simple,” Korone said defensively. “The Warmonger was never meant to conquer allies on land, no matter what other dominions might think. We’ve built to fend off threats from the sea, the abyssals from the marine trenches. That’s why we have the Tidebreaker Fleet, how the Fleet’s made its name. The Leventis family was the one built to manage corrupted senators.”

“But the Leventis family has fallen for years now. No other solutions were brooked?”

“That doesn’t stop abyssals from coming! Look, corrupted senators are so powerful that they act like a beacon of mana, luring hungry abyssals from the trenches. That’s where the Tidebreaker Fleet is right now—out there to fight them off.” Korone folded her arms and glared at Lilian. “Miasma means fighting a war on two fronts. The Warmonger’s Dominion has grown, yeah, but with that growth comes increased demand for protection. We’re stretched thin because none of the other senators are helping.”

Lilian closed her eyes. “Asters have mercy. It’s always politics.”

“Unfortunately, it makes sense,” Wes mused grimly. “Among the senators, it seems like the Harvester is one of the respected old guard. With his dominion gone, the Warmonger will surpass the rest of the Senate.”

“So they leave us to annihilation, as if it will not reach their gates next?” Sethis’s hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. “They’re cunning, but not foolish. There must be at least one senator we can convince.”

A brief, cold silence fell over the plaza. Each second was heavy, a stone passing through an hourglass, as if doom was growing in the spaces between. Lilian tilted her head up and exhaled, the warmth puffing out in a small grey cloud.

“The Scarecrows,” she said suddenly. Her eyes opened in cutting blue. “I believe the Scarecrows will help us.”

“I don’t think the Harvester’s personal army would be thrilled about putting their own liege in the grave,” Halcyon said.

“On the contrary,” Lilian said. “He’s corrupted by miasma. They would be ending his suffering and putting him to rest. I think they would be very motivated.”

He thought on that for a moment. She was probably right. Grudges went far in Atlantis, but miasma was everyone’s enemy. At least, he hoped it was.

“Alright,” he agreed. “Then we just need someone to convince them.”

“Allow me.”

The new voice had Halcyon instinctively bracing his weapon—until Simon Kourios stepped into the light, silver hair wafting around him like a shroud, unshakable smile still fixed on that aggravating face.

“Prime Consul?” Halcyon said sharply. “What are you doing here? You’re not meant to be on the battlefield.”

“A good thing that this is a safe distance away then, no?” Simon rubbed his chin. “Those jumping shoes of yours are hard to follow. I nearly lost you.”

“And that’s why we won’t be sending you to the Scarecrows. We need something faster than the gullets.”

“Are you looking after my safety because I’m an ever-so-important official?” Simon placed a hand on his chest. “I’m touched, Lord Yuden.”

Gods. Maybe he should send the man into the waiting embrace of the Scarecrows’ butterfly knives. Not that he was completely wrong. Halcyon knew that Simon was quite possibly Xiph’s last thread of sanity, and if she came back to him murdered by the Scarecrows...well, he wouldn’t be sticking around to find out.

“We need our fastest springstepper.” Halcyon turned decisively to the smallest member of the group. “Azalea. They say your speed is second only to Lady Caelute.”

“I—I am?” she stammered, eyes wide.

“Well, now you have to be,” Halcyon said. “Get to the Harvester’s. Find the head Scarecrow, Griffin Macar. Get him to muster at whatever nest is closest to the Harvester’s Dominion, because you’ll already be cutting it close.”

Azalea straightened. “Yes, Lord Halcyon.”

“Signal when you’re in place. Then everyone strikes. That should take down the regen long enough for me to…figure something out.”

Everyone nodded—at least, mostly everyone. As Azalea and Wes shot off to the sky like twin comets, Lilian Forsythe kept her icy gaze on Halcyon, arms folded and mouth slanted in an unimpressed line.

“Figure something out?” she said briskly. “Yuden, that senator is the threat level close to a Class Five. Even you can’t face it alone.”

Before Halcyon could speak, Korone bristled. “Of course he can! He’s a Leventis, and their most gifted heir. That means—”

“Means nothing. I’ve done my fair share of snooping around the city. I know that what made the Leventis family strong was their numbers, their group tactics. You’re the First Hunter, Yuden, but even you had Karis Caelute at your side both times you slayed a Five.”

Just the sound of her name had icy fingers gripping his heart. Damn, he was pathetic. “Then where is she?” Halcyon said sharply.

Lilian stared. “Wasn’t she with you?”

“Until she had some important royal errand to attend.”

Lilian looked at Sethis, whose brow only furrowed. “I wasn’t aware of such an errand.”

She’s vanished? Halcyon’s irritation immediately soured into fear. A fine time for the Second Hunter to disappear, right when everyone needed her most! But then where was she? Had he been the last one to see her? What if she was lying somewhere, helpless and dying? What if—

No, idiot boy, you need to focus.

He shook his head to forcibly clear the vision of her bloodied corpse. “Well, then, there’s no other choice,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll have to figure something out, Captain Forsythe. Even if it takes my life.”

“Damned Hunters,” Lilian muttered. “That’s the problem. Throwing your life around like a few dimes.”

But there was no time to argue, and she knew it. She didn’t even leave him a backward glance as she shot into the sky—like he already had one foot in the grave. Sethis followed, his blue cloak cresting behind him; Korone soared in the opposite direction in a bright sweep of white.

Yet one figure lingered idly by, persistent as a burr on a coat.

“Why are you still here?” Halcyon said irritably.

“Can an old man not enjoy an evening stroll in peace?”

Halcyon didn’t deign to reply and only fixed Simon with a droll look.

Simon coughed delicately into a fist. “There’s a minor complication.”

“Oh, good. Not enough of those.”

“We need to preserve as much of Senator Vathalos’s carcass as possible. If we can scry his memories within the Mnemonic Pool…perhaps the knowledge gained would turn the tides.”

Halcyon stared openly at the brazen man. He only returned a passive smile.

“Prime Consul,” Halcyon said slowly, “we’ll be fortunate to fell the senator at all. Never mind secondary objectives.”

“But the Leventis family has always excelled at surpassing our expectations,” Simon said cheerfully. “I thought it wouldn’t hurt to mention.”

Was it too late to send him into the butterfly knives? It was probably too late to send him into the butterfly knives.

“No second thoughts, now,” Simon said. “You already sent Miss Azalea to the Scarecrows.”

Halcyon sighed through his teeth as he braced his manawell for his windsoles. “Don’t push your luck, Consul.”

He left no time for Simon to reply. His windsoles fired and launched him into the night.

The Harvester’s ascension had only accelerated in Halcyon’s absence. Entire plates of the earth had been uprooted, painting an archipelago of levitating islands studded with slices of crumbling coliseum walls and overgrown rubble. Each island was held aloft by a thick helix of flowering roots. Time itself seemed weighed down; pieces of sandstone and marble drifted lazily around the archipelago, a belt of stones in the sky.

Halcyon looked up at the drifting shadow of the corrupted beast that was once Rathos Antheos Vathalos, a shape that was haunting, impervious, and eerily gentle all at once.

Lord Halcyon Yuden. Arbiter Orion Leventis. Rathos’s resonant voice in his head was dry, mocking, a sound that seemed to reach for every last crevice in his skull. Which are you today? Do you even know?

Halcyon gripped his polearm with a tighter hand. “Both would love nothing more than to kill you.”

A disjointed, airless laugh was his only answer. He could sense the senator turning his attention away. Dismissing him as a single, meager, powerless human.

Halcyon gritted his teeth. Above all, he had to occupy Rathos’s attention. If their strategy of locating and eliminating the the nests was uncovered, then all would be placed in immediate jeapordy. Best for the senator to be distracted, and only realize his downfall when it was too late.

So Halcyon reached for the one thing he knew would instantly grab the senator’s complete focus. He flared his manawell until the waters rushed around him in a torrential embrace, hungry for his command.

He let himself be swallowed by the current.

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