Chapter 104. The Armada (Patreon)

Why...am I awake?

Ian groaned and rolled over in bed, accidentally falling off the edge and onto the ground with a thud. He lay sprawled among the bedsheets, too exhausted to move. He could give himself another energy boost using decemancy...but he couldn’t rely on boosts forever. He needed the actual rest while he could get it.

As his eyes unsealed, a reddish globe came into view, bobbing softly next to the foot of the bed.

Was it just yesterday that I tethered this guy here? Ian wondered, closing his eyes once more. Y’jeni, yesterday felt like the longest day of my life.

After fruitlessly waiting for sleep to retake him, he cracked his eyes open to observe the aimless, auburn soul and the sinewy tether leashing it to the bed.

Not going to be getting back to sleep, am I? Ian thought, exhaling a sigh. Might as well do something.

Ian sat up and stretched, then crawled over to the soul, sitting next to it. He put his hand out and began to try stroking it. While most souls simply ducked away whenever Ian–or anyone alive–tried to touch them, the auburn soul remained still. Ian’s fingers passed right through the soul’s interior, causing an almost imperceptible shift in the soul’s movement. He waved them around even more furiously, noting that the auburn spill of ink at the center of the soul was getting distorted, jumbled.

I really have no idea what to do with you, Ian murmured, poking the soul with a finger. Ian suspected the soul had special properties because it was one from one of the people he killed...but that didn’t necessarily make it useful, or even unique: Ian had killed and would continue to do so. If he needed more souls, he could find them.

A knock came on the door. Ian turned his head slightly. Eury’s here to wake me up. With a flick of his hand he broke the tether binding the soul to the bed, a Death-coated hand brushing it away like an old cobweb. The soul began to drift upwards as though pulled by an invisible hand, floating through the ceiling.

That’s that, Ian mused. His thoughts drifted back to Achemiss and his gift of soul sight. How is this going to help me defeat the ascendant? He wished that he had some kind of teacher to explain uses for the soul.

The earnest–if repressed–desire to learn necromancy left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, thoughts of archaic rituals and torturous human sacrifice coming to the forefront of his mind. He shrugged off his reservations for now, redirecting his attention to the present.

“I’m awake,” he called out. “Give me twenty minutes to get ready, please.”

Euryphel cracked the door open to reveal a pale, blue-green eye. “Fine. Your bird wants to come back to you, by the way.”

As Euryphel finished speaking, Bluebird peeked out of Euryphel’s hair, its profile nearly paper thin when viewed head on, eyes poking out on either side like a pair of glowing blue binoculars. The bird bumped its beak against Euryphel’s head as though asking for permission.

“Go back to mom,” Euryphel chuckled, making a shooing motion near the top of his head.

Ian snorted and held back a laugh of his own. “I’m not anyone's mom.”

Euryphel raised an eyebrow, cracking the door open until there was a clear passage between their two bedrooms. As the light streamed in from the chandelier in the prince’s room and cast Ian in a pale glow, Ian noticed how his garments were dusty and full of blood.

Eury rubbed at his jaw for a moment before a devilish glint came into his eyes. “That’s right, you’re his dad.”

Ian stretched his arm onto the bed and grasped at a pillow, then chucked it at the prince. Euryphel defended himself with a small billow of air, stopping the pillow just before it smacked him in the face. Bluebird chose that moment to flutter off, gliding over to Ian.

“And what does that make you, then?” Ian murmured, deciding to match the prince’s mischief.

Euryphel lowered his voice. “Your father.”

Ian rolled his eyes and threw another pillow, knocking Euryphel from his position in the doorway. The prince sighed melodramatically and took a step back towards his own room. “I’ll leave you to get ready, then.”

“And then what?”

Euryphel’s expression sobered. “We’ll be visiting the underground.”

“For a war council meeting?”

The prince shook his head. “Later. First, I need you to see the Deathseed.”

—

Euryphel led Ian down the stone corridor underneath Ichormai, then stopped before an unmarked door. Ian could see the Death energy that pervaded the room, seeping out under the door and into the hallway. Seems like my inscriptions weren’t quite perfect, Ian observed. To be fair, my handwriting isn’t the best. He typically relied on a fabY to create glossware with inscriptions; unfortunately, bounding energy within a room required writing directly onto the walls.

The prince twisted the knob and pulled the door open, revealing the room where they’d stashed the Zukal’iss Deathseed. The seed was like a swollen leech, its form gorged on the ambient Death energy. A singular, massive bone monstrosity lay coiled throughout the room, its numerous appendages moving very slightly, suggesting eerie aliveness.

“Wow,” Ian said flatly. “Huh.”

Euryphel chuckled. “What?”

“It’s different from what I expected,” he admitted. “I wasn’t expecting a tentacle monster.”

The prince crossed his arms, wincing at the rancid smell of rotted flesh. “I thought it was a snake.”

“Nope.” Ian could clearly see the flow of energy throughout the construct and how it all came together like a stringy octopus.

“I thought you had a thing for snakes,” Euryphel replied. “You always go on about how they’re more aerodynamic.”

Ian gave the prince a withering look. “Anyway...I thought the Deathseed would make a construct that was thicker, something that would be able to punch its way through an army. But I can see how this will work.”

Ian reached for his still-borrowed void storage, a small, cinched pouch tired to his belt. Bones streamed out of it, the powerful flux forcing the pouch’s mouth to stretch.

“These are from Godora?”

“I thought it was a good idea to increase my stockpile,” Ian replied. “Even with the Deathseed, there were plenty of dead.”

Euryphel’s expression soured, but he didn’t say anything.

“I avoided our own soldiers,” Ian murmured. “The Deathseed doesn’t distinguish, but I obviously can.”

The prince sighed, his eyes watering from the room’s stench. “That’s not what I was thinking about: I was ruminating on the wastefulness of war itself. I never thought I’d go to war, never thought I’d be able to justify it and still be able to sleep at night.”

Ian’s thoughts turned somber. Seems like it’s more than nightmares and the fear of losing keeping him awake. If anything, it’s guilt.

The prince was now carefully circulating clean air around his face, the Death energy pervading the room thinning just over his mouth and nose. Even so, Ian noticed he was starting to shiver slightly from the chill of Death.

“Let’s head to the war council room,” Ian said. “Didn’t you mention something about it being Ezenti’s turn to provide breakfast?”

—

Aside from seeing Euryphel in a better state of mind, Ian’s favorite part about the entire morning had to be Ezenti’s muffins. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until they were in front of him. When was the last time I ate? Ian thought that he may have eaten a food ration after subjugating Corvid, but he’d been mostly going off of adrenaline and Death energy.

“Whose mind did you read to learn the recipe?” Ian asked between nibbles. The high war council wasn’t going to commence for another ten or so minutes, so those present had some time to chat.

Ezenti’s eyes narrowed. “I have no idea where you’d get such a ridiculous idea, but I don’t read people’s minds, Skai’aren. I think you’d know that from our training together. Regardless, my sister made them.”

At last the rest of the war council assembled. The meeting went slowly as everyone discussed strategies that didn’t involve Ian. They’d point out a potential strike point or defensive gap and then start assigning typical practitioner teams to man them. Ian tried to volunteer himself to help, but stopped volunteering after the fifth time they shut him down.

I suppose it’s probably overkill to go to some of these small places myself, Ian admitted. A lot of these people will be stationed indefinitely, waiting for an attack that might never come. He needed to go to the places that already had conflict, especially places where friendly fire was a serious concern: Those were the battlegrounds that needed a discerning hand.

As the meeting dragged on, they moved around some of their plans for the Deathseeds, but most of the markers on their 3D projection of the Ho’ostar Peninsula remained unchanged. They never discussed where they next needed Ian to go.

While the Secretary of War read over a document, Euryphel made eye contact. “I know you’re trying to hide it, but it’s pretty obvious you’re bored.”

Ian widened his eyes in acknowledgement. No kidding, he thought.

“What we really need is for you to stay on standby in the capital, at least for now,” Euryphel explained. “When the Eldemari attacks, Selejo’s navy is probably going to come straight for Zukal’iss. While we have the Deathseed...you’ll be an invaluable asset to our defense.”

Ian didn’t quite agree. If I’m not in the Zukal’iss, Selejo won’t have nearly as much incentive to sack the city.

All the same, unless they wanted to send him into Godora, Kyeila, or Brin, he didn’t know where he’d be most helpful.

“We’d be fools not to take advantage of your skills, Ian,” Eury added. “You’re already helping immensely. Your Deathseeds are one of our most strategic assets. Without them, we’d have a much harder time holding our fronts.”

Ian inclined his head. Even so...I still feel like there’s more to be done.

—

Germaine sat atop the bone wyrm, her eyes wide as she latched onto the construct’s neck. “I know why I asked for this, but I’m regretting it a little,” she exclaimed.

Ian watched the spectacle from the side, his body hovering lightly in the air just to the side. The wyrm was hovering just a few feet over the training grounds outside the palace. Ian intentionally chose a time in the late evening to convene, hoping to grab the field while it was empty.

Ian moved himself forward and grabbed onto her arm. “You need to relax. The wyrm isn’t even moving.”

“I know, Ian!” Germaine squawked. “But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to fall off.”

Ian snorted. You’re the one that wanted to ride on top, versus in the ribcage. He streamed a few more bones from the void storage and created a small harness to fit over Germaine, attaching it to the wyrm. He lengthened out the neck segment, creating a pair of osteal handlebars for her to grip.

“Much better,” Germaine sighed. “We still on for a short flight?”

“Sure.” While being cooped up inside the palace for the entire day had been restful, Ian was looking forward to getting some fresh air. While the open water was off limits due to fear of Selejan incursion, going deeper into the interior would be safe.

Not that we’re going to go far. Ian knew that he needed to be ready at all times to respond to an attack. If he kept within the distance he could fly in a five-minute full-speed wyrm flight, he’d be fine.

Ian climbed aboard just behind Germaine, then let her direct the wyrm by moving the handlebars.

“For some reason I thought this would feel faster,” she said.

Ian chuckled. “We’re not going at top speed. It’s much more relaxing to do it this way, especially if we’re not sheltered within the wyrm’s ribcage.”

Germaine spent the half hour getting used to flying the wyrm around. As they reached the treeline of a dense jungle, Germaine stopped.

“This really is a beautiful country,” she observed. “Makes me wish I could set up a studio in the clouds.”

“How’s the warm weather been treating you?”

“Well,” she replied, smiling. “It’s winter, and yet it feels like summer. It’s lovely.”

A silence fell between them.

Germaine took her hands off the handlebars, reaching around to pull Ian into a hug. He flinched slightly, surprised by the gesture.

She pulled away and sighed. “We need to talk.”

There’s so much to talk about that I’m not even sure where to start, Ian thought, looking at her blankly.

“How are you really feeling about yesterday?”

Ian blinked, then began to laugh, tears beading at the corners of his eyes. “To be honest, I’m not sure. Mostly, I just feel apathy. I feel like I should feel more.”

“What should you feel more about?” she probed, her eyes narrowing in concern.

“The regular people I’m causing to suffer? But they aren’t the ones crossing my mind.”

“Let’s step back a bit,” Germaine said, reaching for his hand. “I still don’t really understand how you’re feeling. Are you happy that you took Godora?”

Ian paused. “Relieved is a better word for it.”

“Can you...explain a bit more?”

Ian directed his gaze on the moon. “We needed to capture Corvid. If I failed, our war efforts would have turned to mush. I’m not really sure what the SPU would have done.”

Germaine squeezed his hand. “You said you were apathetic towards the Godorans, but I’m not convinced that’s true. You went with the solution that resulted in almost no casualties.”

“Honestly...it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m worried for you,” Germaine said. “You haven’t been answering your glossY since you’ve been back. Mother tried calling you. And now the Eldemari’s declaration of war...well, and what she said.”

“That I’m a half-step ascendant?” Ian laughed softly. “What of it?”

“I’ve been looking into what that means,” Germaine said slowly. “Ian...where did you commence your ascension?”

“Selejo.”

Germaine nodded. “Then...do you think that this entire war is because of you?”

“It often feels that way, despite assurances to the contrary.”

Germaine leaned in and hugged him again. “What’s crazy is that this has all happened over the past two months. I never imagined you’d be leaving us so early.”

Ian felt his throat beginning to constrict as Germaine’s tear wicked into his shirt.

“Me neither.”

“Mother regrets ever letting you enter the Infinity Loop. She told me.”

Ian shook his head. “Unfortunately I’m not convinced. She wanted a champion, not a son, and she got it.”

Germaine pulled back. “Really, Ian, she looks awful.”

“You look awful,” Ian muttered, shooting her a sad smile. “Don’t cry for me yet. I don’t plan on dying; I’ll just be going away.”

She took in a deep, shaky breath. “To me, you’re still my younger brother. I want to protect you but I obviously can’t. The least I can do is try to listen and remind you that you’re loved, that you’re not alone.”

Now it was Ian’s turn to reach over and pull Germaine into an embrace. “I’ll miss you every day that I’m gone.”

She thunked her forehead against his shoulder. “You better.”

Germaine turned the wyrm around and headed back to the city. When they were still a ways out, a low, resonant horn echoed out. Ian seized control of the wyrm and grabbed Germaine from behind, keeping her steady despite the rapid increase in speed.

“What happened!?” Germaine asked, yelling above the whipping wind.

“Not sure, but it can’t be good.”

Two minutes later, they reached the center of the capital. The cloud cover was sparse, so they had an unobstructed view of the Bay of Ramsay.

“Wonderful,” Ian muttered. “Germaine, I’m going to send you back to Ichormai. Don’t come out. Don’t go back to your apartment. There might be a civilian evacuation, but...stay in the palace where you’ll be safe, alright?”

Germaine turned her face back to him, her mouth screwed up in horror. “How are you going to handle so many ships?”

An armada was just coming into view, hundreds of ships moving rapidly over the dark water.

“We’ll manage.”