Reaper (Cradle Book 10) Page 15

  The ground erupted beneath their feet.

  Gray-white hunger madra lurched upward from the stone, grabbing for ankles. They all reacted at once.

  Yerin leaped upward as her sword rang out, shredding the hands. Mercy’s feet were covered to the ankles by greaves of purple crystal, and she spun her bow around her in a blurring circle. Pure madra rushed away from Eithan’s feet, brushing away the hands like water clearing away paint. Ziel simply let them grab his ankles, then Forged a ring of shining green runes around him. A moment later, force crushed the hands against the stone as though gravity had been increased.

  Lindon’s attention was taken by the hand, but he still extended the Hollow Domain around him. A sphere of blue-white madra pushed several feet out from his body, dispersing the spirits of hunger madra. Including their true bodies, which waited underground.

  Around everyone but Eithan and Lindon, bodies followed the hands. These were skeletal ghouls of hunger madra, their jaws hanging down to their chests. They howled as though trying to inhale their meals as they rose from the stone, lunging for everyone else.

  They were still outclassed. This was only a distant projection of Subject One’s anger, a disdainful slap. The deeper they traveled, the more control the imprisoned Dreadgod would have.

  Everyone in the room handled the ghouls in a moment, even as Lindon sealed the desiccated hand back into its silver casing.

  When the brief battle was over, hunger madra dissolved all over the room. Lindon initially intended to collect this madra to rebuild his arm, but none of this had been properly Forged. These were effectively Striker techniques given mobility and the faint will to feed.

  Yerin scuffed her shoe on the stone and spoke scornfully. “Not much security.”

  “Recall that they would normally be acting against victims under the effects of the suppression field,” Eithan pointed out. “They would be suppressed as well, but when both sides are down to Jade, losing even a bit of your madra can be deadly. Speaking of which, how are you holding up, Ziel?”

  Lindon had noticed the same thing. By letting one of the animated techniques touch him, Ziel had given up part of his power. The ghouls were some version of his own Consume technique, so they would drain more than madra.

  Ziel looked disgusted more than weakened. “Lost a little madra, a little soulfire, maybe some blood aura. Feels gross.”

  “One brush shouldn’t be too bad,” Lindon said. “But it will add up. If they can move through the walls, we should protect ourselves.”

  Glowing script-circles appeared around Ziel’s ankles, and he heaved the hammer onto his shoulder. “Great. Now that we know what we’re up against, let’s pick up the pace.”

  Lindon moved his spiritual perception forward, just like everyone else. It wasn’t too far to the next room, and while he couldn’t pierce the walls with his senses, he had no problem feeling the next room.

  Lindon nodded.

  As one, the entire group vanished.

  From the other side of the continent, Malice felt power erupting from the western labyrinth.

  She sent messages to her forces arrayed all around the Blackflame Empire. She had people closer than anyone else. She’d be in control of the situation before anyone else could sense it and react.

  Not long after, her agents began speaking her name with intention. Their will focused on her, drawing her perception. She couldn’t exactly hear what they were saying to her—she wasn’t an Arelius—but she felt their desire to contact her and a touch of their desperate anxiety.

  She abandoned Moongrave.

  When she stepped out of the Way a moment later, she was within sight of Sacred Valley.

  And what she saw made her livid.

  The island of the Silent Servants, with its shining white tree, drifted just outside the eastern mountain. Both shared a white halo of crystallized light madra, though other aspects had been sneaking into the one around Mount Samara.

  Beside the northern peak floated the great ship of Redmoon Hall, the pyramid of Abyssal Palace rolled in on flying stones to the west, and a serpentine raincloud held the Stormcallers to the south.

  The four cults loomed over Sacred Valley. Many of them still bore marks of their fight with Fury—Abyssal Palace had a huge chunk missing and was listing to one side—but their leaders were still in fighting shape. Malice’s perception was somewhat blunted by scripts inside the Redmoon Hall vessel, but she thought she sensed Red Faith in there as well.

  These cults arriving so quickly meant they knew this was going to happen. They knew the suppression field script around the Valley was going to be inverted, meaning they had one of their most advanced sacred artists inside the labyrinth. Maybe Shen himself.

  Instead of a desert of aura, Sacred Valley now gushed with power…but so much of it was hunger. Dreadbeasts would be born or empowered every second. The land around the labyrinth was like a slowly erupting volcano.

  “I have to thank you,” Malice whispered into the air. The newly refreshed aura carried her words to the cults. “It’s not so often I’m given such a fine excuse.”

  She drew her crystalline bow and used its binding to Forge a matching arrow onto the string. Air rippled as the fabric of the world was warped by the power she invested into the arrow, and she let it loose casually in the direction of Abyssal Palace.

  See if their Herald could stop that. Even if he did, there were more arrows where that one came from.

  An arrow flew from the island of the Silent Servants, striking her own in midair.

  The collision of the two missiles created a thunderous detonation of light, which whipped up a hurricane and darkened the sky. Even the island was pushed back.

  Malice’s mood soured even further.

  “What a wonderful veil you have,” she said, and this time she didn’t enhance her voice with aura at all.

  Miles away, a blonde woman in golden armor strode out onto the edge of the Silent Servants’ island. Larian of the Eight-Man Empire rapped her knuckles on her own breastplate. “Wish I could take credit for it, but I’m more about hitting things with sticks from very far away.”

  “So you have chosen to side with the beasts, then. Curious. I thought you liked being on the winning team.”

  Larian leaned on her bow, which looked to the mortal eye to be made of twisted gray driftwood. “The ‘human versus beasts’ line doesn’t work without the dragon around, you know. It’s not like all of us are human anyway. Besides, you know why we’re doing this.” Her voice sharpened. “The Monarchs are the only ones who benefit from the system the way it is. It’s about time we shake things up.”

  Malice itched to beat some sense into this shortsighted Sage, but no one on the Path of the Eightfold Spear traveled alone.

  Sure enough, seven other presences removed their veils all around Sacred Valley. The Eight-Man Empire was here in full, surrounding Sacred Valley.

  “You think Shen is going to change things?” Malice asked softly. “He will never do anything that costs him power.”

  Larian shrugged. “We’re not like the rest of you; we don’t need an ironclad plan before we’ll put one foot in front of the other. Any change is better than none.”

  “Beautiful. So noble of you to be involved to change the world, and not for any sordid material motives.”

  “Malice, he paid us so much.” Larian staggered under the invisible weight of a fortune, only her bow keeping her upright. “We were going to say no at first, but then he just kept bringing out more and more. I felt bad! I said, ‘Reigan, how are you going to feed your people if you give us all this?’ He didn’t even say anything, he just kept dumping treasures into this big pile.

  “Priceless art? Right onto the pile. Gold? Pile. Scales? Weapons? Natural treasures? Pile. By the time he was done, I swear on my heart, it was taller than my head. Best day of my life.”

  Larian sighed fondly. “So anyway, we can’t let him down after all that, right?”

  From the lands all
around the valley, war-bands of the Eight-Man Empire raised their banners. Not crude constructions of cloth and wood, but projections of symbols made of Forged madra. Ghost-Blade, Nine-Hands, Flame-Gift, Blood-Chorus…each of the eight wandering mercenary armies that made up the Eight-Man Empire’s workforce was arrayed against her.

  Malice had sensed them already, but without closer inspection, had taken them to be the forces of House Shen. The war-bands averaged one Archlord, a handful of Overlords, and two or three dozen Underlords apiece, so only when they were gathered in one place could they possibly face down a Monarch’s forces. Just like the Eight-Man Empire themselves.

  But this only stoked her rage hotter, because the presence of the Empire’s armies meant two things. First, that Reigan Shen had devoted staggering resources to bring so many people so far. Second, that House Shen was still unaccounted for.

  He had presumably kept his own forces in reserve to defend his territory, but she would know soon. Her subordinates were on their way to the Rosegold continent already.

  Malice gave the gathered horde an icy once-over. “To think he would empty his treasury to bring such an army here.”

  “I told you! He’s invested.” Larian pulled her bow from the ground and gestured with it. “So are you going to let this happen, or do you want to make us earn our keep?”

  Miles behind Malice, the unaffiliated experts of the Wasteland received her transmitted message and removed their veils. Three Heralds, a Sage, and five ancient Archlords. From the other side of Sacred Valley, Charity cycled her own madra, and several Herald-level spirits shone like bonfires as well—living weapons of the Akura clan.

  At a glance, Malice’s own forces were lacking. She had fewer Sages and fewer Heralds.

  Then again, the Eight-Man Empire couldn’t really be counted as a collection of Sages and Heralds, but as one Monarch. And these were Malice’s lands. Not only could she draw upon more forces than the enemy, she had other resources to play.

  And she could call Northstrider.

  Larian sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d consider settling our differences with a series of duels, would you?”

  Malice tapped her bloodline legacy so that her eyes shone, and she radiated shadow aura to blacken the sky. “Invaders, hear me! You have trespassed on Akura lands. Withdraw, or your blood will flow like water.”

  “Guess the fight will come down to Golds, then,” Larian said. “At least it is a good cause, in the end.” Then she shed her casual appearance and adopted a manner more befitting a self-respecting Sage. “Long-Sight!”

  The Long-Sight war-band, beneath their banner of a bow and an eye, gave a shout and a pulse of spiritual power that shook the ground.

  Far away, a different voice shouted. “Ghost-Blade!”

  The Ghost-Blade war-band answered their leader, and another cry went up from another member of the Eight-Man Empire.

  “Blood-Chorus!”

  “Flame-Gift!”

  “Green-Stride!”

  The war-bands of the Eight-Man Empire sounded like the footsteps of the Wandering Titan as they answered their leaders.

  And soon, if Malice didn’t stop them, they would hear the Titan’s actual footsteps once again. Reigan Shen had often claimed he wanted to call the Dreadgods together to destroy them and make them into weapons. Even if that were true, it would ruin her lands.

  So she would crack open this formation and destroy Shen’s plans, even if she had to drown them in blood.

  10

  Lindon could best describe the next room as a “hall of hammers.”

  It was a stone cellar, and very recently, the walls had been lined with wooden shelves and racks. He had to piece that together, because now the room was strewn with splinters. Someone had clearly done battle here, and recently, though the stone of the walls was unharmed.

  Before that battle, the racks and walls of the room had been filled with hammers. Lindon was certain only because some pieces remained.

  As they entered, he had to step over a hammer with a head that looked like it was made of dark purple glass. It still leaked sparks of pink essence from a crack. A pile of broken hammers lay in the corners, where they had been discarded, and a few had been crushed while still strapped to a rack.

  Those same racks were all over the room, empty, and Lindon noticed evidence that they had been occupied recently.

  “Dross,” Lindon said aloud.

  [Yes?]

  “…what do you think about this situation?” Lindon had thought that question would go without asking.

  [This room was recently the repository for sacred instruments. All, or most, hammers. Most likely the intact instruments were looted after the battle.]

  Yerin nudged a pile of rubble aside with her foot. “Wake me when we find a room like this for swords.”

  Orthos had already hopped off of Lindon’s shoulder and started munching at a defunct hammer.

  “Stop that,” Lindon said. “That could be a thousand years old.”

  Orthos met Lindon’s eyes and deliberately took another bite.

  Eithan skipped to the middle of the room, then twirled in place. “Ah, I see, I see. Well, this is a disappointment. This is all quite ancient by modern standards, of course, but none of it dates back to our first Patriarch. They must have removed any of his relics when they first arrived.”

  [I know little about the Arelius founder. You should tell me more, so that I may form a more accurate picture of our situation.]

  Lindon knelt for one of the hammers and ran his fingers across it. He could sense its madra composition just as easily standing, but there was something more immediate about feeling it himself.

  “These aren’t hunger madra,” he noted. He had hoped to find some materials to upgrade his arm here. As it was, he was reluctant to use the Consume technique at all, since the binding was always on the verge of breaking again.

  Eithan slapped his forehead. “Ah, that’s right! I forgot we had neglected that aspect of your education. You see, these are Soulsmith hammers.”

  Lindon stared blankly around the room. He had used hammers in Soulsmithing before. They were only used to physically batter certain stubborn types of dead matter into place, or to crack open a Remnant’s carapace.

  There didn’t seem to be any reason to store a massive variety of sacred instruments for such a simple task. And all those that remained were broken, so there wasn’t much else to learn.

  “Oh,” Lindon said. He stood, ready to move on.

  “I hear from your lack of enthusiasm that you don’t know what that means. Well, ahem, you see, there is a reason why hammers are often associated with Soulsmiths besides the use of hammers in more mundane smithing.”

  Mercy hopped from one foot to another. She looked between the three exits in the room. “Yes, this is fascinating, but don’t you think we could scoop everything into a void key and move on?”

  Ziel jerked a thumb toward her. “We can have the history lesson on the way. I don’t know why we would…what do you have there?”

  Orthos had pulled a huge pile of wood and debris away from the wall, then ignited a smoky red flame so he could examine something around the base of the wall.

  Ziel edged closer, and they both examined what appeared to be a barely visible line of inactive script.

  “So this goes to the outer boundary of the room…” Ziel murmured, tracing a line of script with his finger.

  “What does it do?” Orthos asked.

  Lindon longed to go over and take a look for himself, but Eithan was gesturing him over to the other side of the room to show him a mostly intact hammer.

  “Once upon a time,” Eithan said, “the tool you used for your Soulsmithing was as important as the material you used. It was said that our Patriarch could make a weapon fit for a Sage with just his hammer and a Gold Remnant. The hammer is used to inject your will into an object, shaping its function according to your intentions. And each hammer has its own specialty, some being better for
crafting weapons, some made for altering dream tablets, and so on.”

  Pink sparks flew up from the cracked hammerhead as Eithan spun it between his fingers. Lindon examined it, intrigued.

  “So what did this one do?”

  “Difficult to tell now, but you can sense the dream madra as well as I can.”

  Lindon had the vague sense that this hammer had once been used to shape memories. If he had to guess, he would say that it was made to alter dreams from their natural form, modifying them.

  As Lindon looked over the collection of hammers, he started to understand. And new libraries of possibility opened up to him.

  “I see. It’s only useful to Soulsmiths who can directly manipulate their willpower. So only Lords.”

  As Lindon was lost in the possibilities of Soulsmithing, he overheard Yerin talking to Mercy. “You think we should pick a hallway and leave them behind?”

  “We really don’t want to get lost in here. But if we stay in here too long, that’s what’s going to happen!”

  Lindon dragged himself out of his trance and snatched up the most intact hammers. He tossed them into his void key…which took a moment longer than usual to open. He would have to check its script.

  From his pocket, he withdrew the case containing the white hand.

  “Apologies. I’m ready to go.”

  “It’s a pity,” Eithan said, as Lindon readied the hand. “I was really hoping to find some Arelius relics here. But if there were any, they were taken.”

  Everyone present knew that someone had fought in here, and it was probably the same one who had deactivated the suppression field.

  There were no traces of the intruder’s madra left, or at least none that could be sensed compared to the leaking and broken hammers. This battle had taken place days ago, or maybe weeks.

  If everything went according to plan, they would eventually run into this person. So there was no point speculating.

  It was time to move on.

  This time, when Lindon revealed the hand, all the uncontrolled power in the room flowed toward him immediately as the hunger devoured it. The hand twisted in his grip as it fed, and a howl echoed through the room.