The Fifth Vertex (The Sigilord Chronicles) (21 page)

Act or die. React and you're already dead
.

He reached for the mace on his right hip, only then remembering that it was gone. Still running, he unhooked his other mace and kept an eye on the metal bird plunging out of the moonlit sky and the small silhouette of the briene piloting it.

As it drew closer, Urus ran in a crouch. Just as the bird reached its lowest point, Urus dove, spinning onto his back before he landed. He reached upward and grabbed hold of the bird's metal talons as it flew over. The jolt of the rapid climb through the air nearly knocked him off, but he managed to cling to the underside of the metal beast.

It soared up and rolled around again, making for another pass at Urus's last position. The pilot must not have known what had happened. That gave Urus just enough of the element of surprise to climb up from the talons, clamber over the right wing, and leap for the pilot's seat.

This time there was no hesitation; this wasn't like the boat. He swung his mace, slamming it with full force into the briene's chest. The pilot flew backward but not out, as a thick fabric strap kept him fastened to the seat.
 

Urus punched the smaller man in the face as he reached for the control stick, then cut the strap. He waited until the bird flew over another high plateau and dumped the pilot out where the fall wouldn't kill him.

Slipping into the pilot's seat, he studied a mesmerizing display of knobs and gears, all arranged around a single metal rod jutting up from the floor. He had seen the pilot holding the rod and so he did the same.

It didn't take him long to figure out that the rod worked a lot like shifting his weight when using the windrunner cloak. Urus banked hard to the right and swung the flying machine back around toward the rendezvous point on the plateau.

Flying the metal bird was even more exciting than gliding using the cloak. He could fly up or down or in any direction and he felt safer sitting inside the bird's metal head than he did gliding in the open, exposed and vulnerable.

It took only seconds to get back to the plateau. He flew low to the ground but saw no one, not even Murin or Corliss. They must not have been able to make it back from wherever they had been when the explosions started.

Urus veered off and headed for the road carved into the mountain, all the while looking down at the chaos of the camp. As he settled into an easy course, still not sure how to control the speed of the bird, he risked a quick glance behind him.

He was being followed.
 

Two more giant metal birds soared down toward him in fast pursuit. Urus pulled back on the stick to try to get higher. He pushed pedals on the floor and spun gears and knobs, but nothing, not even his repeated pounding and kicking, made the bird fly faster.

As he approached the mountainside, he saw four silhouettes running up the road, one over a head taller than the rest.
That must be them
.
 

Urus rolled the aircraft toward the mountain, then pulled back on the stick again, climbing higher and higher. The other two birds easily swung up behind him, closing the distance until they were only a few feet behind him as the birds soared straight up.

He looked back past the giant metal tailfeather that controlled the bird's direction, down at the briene pursuing him, and an absolutely insane idea came to him.

He gripped his mace, rolled up and out of his seat, and slammed the mace into the tail, pushing off of the bird with his feet. His bird spun and smashed into the other two, sending a giant wreck of bronze and steel spinning down toward the earth.

Urus spread his arms and legs as he fell, the cloak billowing up and catching him. He soared down past two switchbacks in the road and then, mimicking the landing he'd seen Corliss and the others perform, he leaned back and folded the cloak inward as his feet hit the ground, running off the extra momentum.

Exhausted, bruised, and in pain, he collapsed on the road just as the others came up around the switchback.
 

"Urus!" Goodwyn called, running to his side.

Urus sat up, waving Goodwyn off. He clutched his ribs, but he could still manage. Barely.

"That was some spectacle down there," Corliss said, "With those towers down, we might stand a chance against them."

"No," Murin said, shaking his head sadly, "we do not stand a chance. With those towers down, we have just enough time to try and get the townspeople to safety. The briene likely have many more of those towers in reserve. We have bought some time while the briene bring up the reinforcements."

Urus pushed off a knee, grimacing as he stood, and looked over at Cailix. Her clothes were soaking wet, as was her hair, and there were dark smudges on her face and hands.

"It's all right," she said, noticing his gaze. "The blood isn't mine."

"All of that is blood?" Urus gave Goodwyn a questioning look. They would definitely have to talk about this when they got back to the city.

"You said there was a second way out of the city, but it was dangerous. Too dangerous for civilians?" Murin asked Corliss as they started up the road again, supporting Urus's weight between them.

"There are tunnels that lead to caves you can take to the other side of the mountain. It's a treacherous road to get anywhere safe, but it's possible."

"When we get back to the city, you'll need to order everyone to evacuate." Though Corliss
 
was now in control of the city, Murin's grimace made his statement more an order than a suggestion.

"There is one small problem," Corliss said.

"And that is?"

"The tunnel to the other side of the mountain is controlled by Noah, the head of the thieves' guild and the man who has been trying to kill me."

"I may be able to help with that," Murin said with a grin. "He and I are apparently friends."

17

Draegon Asurnios surveyed the battlefield, his cloak billowing in the dry desert heat that carried the stench of war: a potpourri of blood, rot, and burning embers. Thick black smoke drifted over the red-orange sand from the fires of the camps, burning boats, and flames still raging within the walls of Kest.

He wiped his face, scraping the insufferable sand out of the scars in his cheeks and his mustache. He could not wait to be done with this miserable place. He was the first, the first of all of them. He remembered the day he had discovered his powers as though it was yesterday, even though that day was over five thousand years gone.

He had seen it all and survived everything imaginable. He was one of the few who remembered what the world looked like on the brink of destruction, humanity about to become extinct. That was the height of the Age of Power, when the worst of the fighting between his kind and his ancient enemy had nearly destroyed everything. The scar it left on the universe could still be felt by those who knew what to look for.

He stood there on the dune, surrounded by tents and commanders from the four armies at his command, and surveyed the siege before him. These people didn't know war, not real war like he had seen. They didn't know power. If they had seen even half of what he remembered, they would turn and run, never again to take up the blade.

He chuckled aloud at the thought.
 

A blond-bearded, bare-chested general with as many scars as muscles stepped out from one of the nearby tents, a lit pipe in one hand and a mug of ale in the other. Tattoos and war paint decorated his body from neck to toe.

"My men grow restless, Draegon. Where is all the limitless plunder, the riches and bounty of women ripe for the taking you promised us when we signed on for this? I didn't drag my army this far south for some fool's errand."

How dare the pathetic creature speak to him so!

Draegon answered without taking his eyes from the smoldering city on the horizon. "Remember your place, Kraedd. I promised you a quarter of the haul from the city after you took it."

"And so where is our share?" Kraedd asked, gesturing at the city.

Draegon scowled at him. "Your men sacked the city, but you fell back. In fact, all of the armies fled. You stand around outside, waiting like vultures for the enemy to die."

"You can't blame us for that, mage. Those desert savages closed the gates after we took it. They trapped ten thousand of my men and just as many from the other armies within. You can't imagine the bloodbath. The soldiers are cut off from command, fending for themselves in small units in a city they don't know."

"And what of the Kestians now?" asked Draegon.

Another commander stepped out from the tent, a fair-skinned man with long black hair and tight-fitting armor, his hand resting on the hilt of a broad sword.
 

"They hide in the nooks and crannies like insects fleeing the light," he said.

Kraedd nodded. "It is madness. I have never seen anything like it. They have besieged the besiegers. Our men trapped inside cannot get out, and the savages appear out of the sand like scorpions when we try to take a gate to rescue them."

"You got yourselves into this mess, you can get yourselves out," Draegon said.

"No way, mage. You're going to conjure up something to get my men out of that city, or to get reinforcements in. Blast the gates open wide or something."

Draegon spun and grabbed Kraedd by the throat, lifting him off the ground and high over his head. Without a word he crushed the man's windpipe and let him drop to the ground in a lifeless heap.

"Any questions, Commander Elwin?"
 

"None," replied the remaining commander.

"I am finished here. My companions have accomplished their goal. If you wish to retreat and cut your losses now, there will be no reprisal from me."

"Understood. And if we stay?"

"Then if you manage to clean the rats out of their holes, whatever riches remain are yours for the keeping, including whatever is left on the bodies of the other armies."

Elwin nodded but said nothing.

"Before you decide, bring me the turncoat. I wish to speak with him before I leave this foul place."

Elwin nodded and plodded awkwardly over the loose sand, down the dune and into a larger, rectangular tent.

Draegon turned around and smiled. There, hovering a few feet above the sand, were the translucent images of four of his long-lost brethren, those he had not seen in the flesh for several millennia.
 

"With this vertex destroyed, our ability to reach into this plane grows stronger," said one of the nearby shimmering figures.

"Waldron should be under siege as we speak. That vertex should be destroyed in a matter of hours," Draegon said.

"Have you determined the locations of the others?" asked another of the apparitions.

"My apprentice was able to copy the Woan Map before it crumbled to dust. We have the locations and are massing resources as needed. We have gathered a navy to reach the last vertex."

"Timing is everything, as you know, Draegon. We will not get another chance like this for a very long time."

"I am aware of the timing. Know your place, Esseril. I am the one who figured out when the time would be right in the first place. Have there been any stirrings from our old enemies?"

"None," replied one of the figures. "your notion that they were wiped out entirely by the Fulcum War may hold true. Surely they would have felt the breaking of the wards and come out of hiding if any of them yet lived."

"Stay vigilant; they may yet remain and are just waiting to strike," Draegon said.

"There is another matter," whispered a pair of robed, translucent figures in unison.
 

The Meretho twins
, thought Draegon. On their own they were utterly useless, but together they possessed the gift of prophecy and foresight. Power like that was always wasted on the dimwitted or undeserving. "What matter?" he asked.

"We appear to have failed to account for temporal shift. The vertex stones are no longer in the same place as their anchors within the quantum foam."

"So destroying the stones isn't enough?"

The twins shook their heads. "We will need a chain reaction of splitting atoms to tear the bonds with the anchor. An impact that tears at the fabric. Only then will the vertex be truly destroyed and the tether cut, taking the ward with it."

"There isn't enough blood of potency on this planet to create that kind of explosion," Draegon snapped.

"No, but there is something we have never tried. There may yet be another way—" The ghostly figures stopped and peered over Draegon's shoulder.

Two soldiers pushed one of the dark-skinned savages up the dune, his hands bound, and shoved him to his knees before Draegon. A single tail of black hair dropped to his shoulder from a topknot on his otherwise bald head. Chains of bone hung from his neck and waist.

"Why are you treating me like a prisoner? Anderis and I had a deal!" sputtered the fool. Traitors were all the same, Draegon thought. If a man could betray his own kind to your benefit, he could easily betray you to his own. Never trust a traitor.

"I believe Anderis held up his part of the bargain. Your life was spared."

"I was supposed to remain in Kest to rule!"

"Then why did you leave?"

"I killed the emperor with my own hand," he spat. "and I nearly killed the Commander of the First Fist. You should be rewarding me. You owe me!"
 

"Nearly? You're telling me that you let the city's highest ranking soldier escape?"

"Yes; well, no, not intentionally.
 
His men are the ones organizing the resistance. They're calling it a reverse siege. They're all mad; they actually think they will prevail. The shamans loyal to me have been rounded up and thrown in dungeon cells."

Draegon gave a bored sigh. "None of that concerns me anymore. Now that I have what I want, Kest is just another worthless, pathetic city filled with weak, powerless little people."

"Anderis and I had a deal," the prisoner insisted. "You have to honor his promise! I am Kebetir, the High Shaman, not some common citizen!"