Chương 93: Chapter 84 - Subversion and Opportunity

++The problem with Garamon operating as it did was that it meant creating a lot of enemies. This was unacceptable, as those enemies tended to target me as well. ++ - From the writings of Isabel Vornholt, 'The Great Lich'. 1, 891 A. E. Whoever was behind this ambush, they knew what they were doing. If they'd just set up a magical barrier, Agrian would've felt it a mile off and known better than to try rushing through. They were subtler than that, smarter.

Instead their mana was channeled in tiny little streaks and sent under the dirt outside the entrance, probably eating away at the ground beneath over long minutes, maybe hours. They'd certainly had the time to work. The result was that, apparently, only a few pillars of aether had held the whole thing up, so light and thin that they didn't even register to Agrian's senses next to the magicians who made them and his own shield.

The aether exploded under them as they stepped on it, half-collapsing and half erupting the dirt to throw men in different directions and ruin their rush instantly. Agrian was one of the ones who was launched; feeling a shiver run through him even with his shield blocking the shockwave, a moment of weightlessness as he flew through the air, then feeling dirt embrace him as he crashed down on it. Crashed hard.

Again the shield saved him, probably the only thing keeping bones from breaking as he rolled and came up, then swore as men were already swarming him. Skinny natives in cloth and rattling armour, all with headwraps that obscured every inch of their faces save from the hateful eyes peeking out. They fell upon Agrian with hissed curses and jagged blades, gunshot filling the air as men aimed pistols and scatterguns his way.

The blades all slid from his shield, with the bullets flattening against it into leaden mushrooms, but Agrian could feel the tug on his mana as it struggled to absorb all that kinetic energy. His own powers had been tested and proven against rifle rounds, but not in any great volume. With so many attacks falling in at once, one might get through soon. Agrian threw up both his hands and ignored the demands of his shield.

He'd get nowhere fast from just working against the damage, he needed to take out the enemies causing it. Fortunately, a magician had plenty of options in that regard for disposing of ordinary men. Agrian wasn't feeling especially sadistic so he chose aether flachettes; little needles and darts of solid aether made dense and hard, but not too big or heavy. He conjured them with one thought, just beyond his shield, and flung them out with a burst of force with one more.

Stone walls would have stopped them cold, but men were a lot softer than stone. Agrian was long since desensitised to gore, but even he winced at the noise his projectiles made exiting the men's backs. His shield was sprayed with blood and sounded like an angry beehive for a few moments as the aether shivered and shook the liquid free. By the time he could see again, Agrian's attackers had either fallen away or dropped dead and freed up the space around him.

He got to his feet as he surveyed the area for his allies, catching sight of them, still fighting, just as a fireball engulfed him. Heat was harder to ward off than force or solid matter, but his shield managed it too. So it was shocking when Agrian still felt his skin throb with pain at the intensity. Agrian's response was water, a primitive spell but an effective one that dragged the moisture from around him and soaked it over his body.

Even then he felt it hissing to steam as the heat intensified, but after a few moments he still had skin and the enemy's attack was over. He caught movement on a high roof and spun just as another fireball came his way. This time Agrian's answer was preemptive; a cask of aether that shot through the air and caught the enemy's projectile mid-flight, send it spinning off kilter to explode beside him and mostly miss its mark. He still would've gotten singed, were it not for his shield.

The enemy magician was throwing another spell and Agrian didn't have time to see what this one was, or gamble on a defence. He just threw force under himself and let his own body fly high over it. There was a pop and a rustle and a feeling of sudden dread beneath him that made Agrian think he could not, in fact, have blocked whatever it was, then his momentum halted and he spent a long moment hanging in the air as gravity waited to snatch him down again.

It gave him a very good firing position to throw his own attack, a bolt of lightning, right into the magician's chest. What fell from the roof was more of a shrivelled piece of charcoal than a human. Agrian landed, feeling his shield warp to absorb the impact as much as his knees did by bending. The fighting was still raging around him, growing more violent, not less, as men died and were wounded, whipping each other up into a frenzy. This story is posted elsewhere by the author.

Help them out by reading the authentic version. Despite it, he thought things were going decently. Some of his allies were dead, but a lot of the enemy were—mostly by his own hand. They really didn't seem to have expected a magician of his strength to be present. Then the undead rushed in, and it all went to shit.

These ones weren't as ancient and sophisticated as the reanimates Agrian had encountered in Sakhent's ruins, but he knew at a glance they were a cut above the common zombies he'd read warning of in his texts at Winzorth. They moved too smoothly and dextrously, almost human in their movements and far faster. Each wore ancient bronze armour and wielded ancient bronze weapons, and their lifeless, empty sockets were somehow clear in fixating right on Agrian.

Half broke off for his men, the other half came straight for him. Agrian was forced to make a quick decision. Cowardice won out over stupidity. Stories of heroes fighting and dying for their comrades were nice, but Agrian didn't see much to be gained by re-enacting one now. Not much to gain, and a life to lose.. With a pulse of force and flachettes he threw out a distraction at the undead, then turned and started propelling himself through the air to escape.

Agrian was moving fast, watching the ground whip by beneath him so quick the whole road just turned into a sandy-coloured smear. He wasn't fast enough. Something reared up ahead quicker than he could react and he smashed into it, shield screaming as the barrier broke. Agrian exited through the other side, but his trajectory was fucked; he dipped down into the road, bounced, fell again and rolled another twenty paces before hitting a building. Everything hurt.

His head, his neck, all extremities feeling like they'd been halfway torn-off and the core of his body throbbing like someone had just spent the last five minutes jumping up and down on it with no shield to intervene. It was all Agrian could do to sit up, eyes bleary, and look ahead at… … Magicians. Not just magicians, powerful magicians. Not just powerful magicians; powerful magicians in the same faded robes Agrian recognised from the day of Sakhent's resurrection.

There were rebels around them, wearing the same uniforms they always did in their attacks, and this information at last allowed Agiran's slow, leaking asshole of a brain to piece together what was going on, how the cultists had apparently slipped into Orapathaqi and found influence among its conquered people. There was a lesson there, he thought. Whatever that lesson was, Agrian's head was in no condition to piece it together, he was a bit too busy waiting for his brain to stop shaking.

Every moment he spent doing so, the enemy grew a step closer.

"Bugger," he mumbled. Then their hands were on him. Surprisingly enough, they seemed gentle about it. Grabbing Agrian and binding his limbs, apparently wanting him alive because they were careful not to hurt him. This was his only saving grace, because it gave him the chance to hurl one last spell—a beacon sent into the sky. Fat lot of good that would do him, in all likelihood.

Nesariyah was a traitor. She'd come to this realisation about a week ago, and was letting it settle into her mind deeper with each subsequent day. She didn't have to be a traitor. Indeed, many of her countrymen weren't. They were joining the rebels, fighting back against the magicians of Garamon, fighting and dying for their people and their history. Nesariyah had that option too.

She wasn't trained in battlemagic, but she was trained in magic, and for matters of raw power she'd already been above all but five of the high priesthood as of the attack. A few weeks and she'd be formidable, a few months and she'd be deadly. If she lived and trained in combat for years, she may still become one of the most devastating casters in Orapathaqi's history. But it was that 'if' that stayed her hand, that threat of dying. And that was how Nesariyah knew she was a coward.

The right thing was right ahead of her, obvious and easily known, but she did not do it, not because she was unable but because she was unwilling. A risk of losing her own life was too much to be worth the chance to save countless others. Nesariyah had lived most of her life thinking of herself as, if not a brave person, then at least a decent one. At least one who would do what was needed when the time came.

The invaders had taught her otherwise, and in so doing shattered her self-perception just as they had shattered countless physical treasures.

"Keep up," the Garamon girl, Isabel Vornholt, snapped. She had approximately a slave-driver's willingness to forgive delay. Nesariyah had seen the treatment her other people had given servants, and she did not doubt this one would resort to it if provoked. She hurried.

"You are sure it is somewhere over here in the southern quarter?" Vornholt asked her, that perpetual frown on her face as always.

"Yes," Nesariyah had to resist the urge to spit out her answer. They were searching for a sarcophagus, one that would inevitably find its way to some Garamon museum staffed by people who didn't know a thing about its sacred purpose or meaning. Before then, Vornholt intended to study and memorise the spellwork about it. She had an exquisite memory, that much Nesariyah could not help but admit.

And she was unerring in her quest for knowledge of any kind, which was what made it such a surprise when she suddenly froze now, her head tilted to the air, her face crinkling with a frown.

"What is it?" Nesariyah asked, fear running through her like a knife. Rebels. It had to be rebels, they would find two lone women a tempting target indeed, and Nesariyah knew that they did not tend to forgive those who served their invaders. Was she going to die today? But no attack came, instead Vornholt's face just creased into a snarl.

"Someone is moving on my brother," she growled. Nesariyah stared at her.

"... What?"

"Shut up," the girl snapped, and Nesariyah shut up while she watched Vornholt focus.

"There." She turned, and Nesariyah followed her gaze to see…yes, magic. A spell of light and sound, energy coiling and dissipating in the air. It was so hard to see, with the sun as bright it was, but unmistakeable.

"Agrian," Vornholt whispered. She turned back to Nesariyah in an instant.

"Go to the army barracks, tell them I sent you and that we need help in the southernmost wall's keep. There is a rebel attack there." Nesariyah had questions, but she had no time to ask any before Vornholt turned and began shooting away.