through him. She signaled to one of her ranking mage hunters. “Strike Force Commander Nyshyl, attend.”
The woman was extremely lean. Everything was sharp-edged about her: her features, her short and spiked hair, even her demeanor. She bowed to Ravyn. “Yes, Eternal Light?”
“This is Lord Arcanist Ossyan Vyre. Include him on your patrols.” To Ossyan she said, “Heed Nyshyl’s counsel; she knows this area and you do not. My opinion of you depends on her assessment when next we meet.” Ossyan locked eyes
Ossyan said, “Patrol? I thought the force I brought might be put to better use.”
Ravyn’s smile was prim. “Khador is vast. Your bumbling might draw the Greylords out. I go west to Khardov.
Station your soldiers at the Klywen base. Should I need your myrmidons, I will send word.” She turned her back on him in dismissal, and he swallowed a retort.
Ossyan learned in the days ahead that most of the sect’s mage hunters were in Khador, desperately searching for the once-shunned god of the Nyss, the father of winter.
The god’s frozen vault could be anywhere; Khador was ten times the size of Ios, and a third was rugged mountains.
After days of marching in silence Nyshyl eventually began to ask questions. Most seemed to suggest her disapproval.
When on the eighth day she asked, “How did you manage the crossing into Khador?” he heard the unspoken addition,
“. . . given you are utterly incapable of subtlety and were accompanied by noisy myrmidons.”
He answered, “We used tunnels near Laedry, an abandoned human mine that intersected an older web of caves.”
“Loathsome things lurk in those depths. I am surprised you made the journey without incident. Fortune favors you.”
Here she implied, “Those with luck have no need of skill.”
Ossyan spoke automatically. “‘Fate dances on puppet strings for those who weave reality’s skein.’”
She looked at him and asked, “A House Vyre maxim?”
“Yes. Our house makes its own luck.” The actual explanation was more involved, but he expected she had no interest in esoteric philosophy.
Before she could reply a sound to the northwest caught their attention. Nyshyl readied her crossbow and slipped away with her mage hunters, communicating in silent signals with their hands. Ossyan hastened to follow. The ease with which the mage hunters glided between trees and thorny undergrowth made him feel clumsy. He gathered his
of time, and executed a technique allowing him to slide through small gaps in the ordered sequence of moments.
This greatly accelerated the speed of his steps and reactions.
He bade his myrmidons follow more cautiously.
He almost ran past one of the mage hunters hunkered behind a fallen log watching through a break in the trees ahead.
Down a short incline and along a thin, winding stream a
of a half-dozen Winter Guard. A Greylord was scrambling up the bank followed by hulking, shadowy forms. The Greylord tripped and fell.
One of the pursuers raised a heavy serrated axe over his head and brought it down with a meaty thunk. “Bane thralls,” hissed one of the mage hunters. Amid the shadowy undead was a gaunt shape, lacking the thick and heavy plated armor of the others. It was a walking corpse with pallid skin traced by countless unsavory black runes.
Ossyan’s studies told him this must be a skarlock thrall.
The creature snatched a satchel from the fallen Greylord, then hissed indistinct words and waved to the trees on the opposite bank.
“Strike!” Ossyan called without hesitation. His senses and reactions were still augmented by the time-slipping invocation, and he shot forward from between the trees as a blur. Several of the less experienced mage hunters
in the shadows surrounding the armored dead. Nyshyl
The warcaster felt naked without his myrmidons, which were still pushing through the trees, but he knew he could
the skarlock. The focusing orb of his cannon blazed like a miniature sun as an energy lance pierced the creature and
slowing the nearest bane thralls. The skarlock crumpled as the burning lance seared a hole through its chest.
The bane thralls hissed and turned to confront him, eyes gleaming green with baleful light. He did not hesitate,
cleanly through the nearest thrall. He easily dodged two incoming axe blows, but one attacker anticipated his shift
thrall with a wild sideways slash. The mage hunters fought smoothly side by side to eliminate the rest.
Ossyan’s hands shook as he looked down at the deep notch carved into his armor. He felt an unnatural cold seeping into his skin from where the thrall’s axe had
nearly penetrated, but there was no blood. Nyshyl gave him an inscrutable look, but her slight nod conveyed grudging respect.
His myrmidons smashed through the undergrowth on the opposite shore. Hypnos leapt across the stream to arrive at his side, its posture suggesting affront that he had put himself in harm’s way. Ossyan set the myrmidons to sweeping the nearest trees for additional Cryx. The mage hunters followed suit, with only Nyshyl lingering. She said,
“We have never run into Cryx in this area.”
Ossyan’s eye fell on the satchel the skarlock had stolen
make no sense of the writing. “This isn’t Khadoran,” he said as the mage hunter approached. “It looks similar, but
it’s nonsense.” He handed her the documents. She studied them in silence, pausing only when a subordinate approached to report the nearby woods clear of Cryx.
Finally Nyshyl looked up. “They are ciphered. We broke this code years ago.”
“Are the contents relevant?”
Ossyan felt his pulse rising.
Nyshyl hesitated before replying,
“One is from the Greylord Zerkova to subordinates in Skirov. It mentions
delivery of a vital research specimen.
It is vague, but . . .” She looked up at him. “This may be just the clue we were seeking.”
Ossyan’s mind was already hurtling ahead. “What do we know of the Greylords in Skirov?”
“They have no significant presence there that we knew of.
Greylords prefer to hide their laboratories underground; this one might have gone unnoticed by our agents. Intelligence suggests Zerkova lacks the cooperation of her superiors, so she may have kept this secret even from them.” She swallowed.
“We must inform Ravyn.”
She made as if to move, but he seized her arm. “Wait!” She looked down at his hand and he released her. “How strong is the Khadoran Army in Skirov?”
“A modest force,” she answered reluctantly. “Less than a thousand, spread between several district and outer wall outposts as well as the central garrison. Mostly Winter Guard, although they do have warjacks. A prison called Khardstadt outside the city has its own garrison, including Widowmakers. Why?”
Ossyan felt gathering potential, with a tingling in his
His family line had the power of occasional divination and prophecy. He felt certain that events conspired to place him here, now. When he had set forth from Ios he had told himself he would risk his life to achieve acclaim and respect for House Vyre and erase the stain of the War of Houses. He had not thought he would be tested so soon.
He looked her in the eyes and used his most persuasive voice. “We must seize this opportunity. We do not know how long until Zerkova arrives, and the Greylords may notice their courier missing. Ravyn is hundreds of miles away. My soldiers are close and ready for battle.”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “You do not have enough men. Even if you did, this is too large a matter for you to decide.”
“We have myrmidons of House Vyre! We have soldiers prepared to lay down their lives! Skirov has a town garrison, likely fat and lazy so far from the front line. We do not need to defeat them all, only break through to our objective. If we strike hard and fast, they will withdraw. I can make that happen.” He held a hand up and summoned a swirling mirror-bright orb of energy that caused her hair to stand on end as a tickling sensation crawled across exposed skin.
“We will not fail,” he said as the orb faded and he lowered his hand.
The display unsettled her, and she looked between him and his myrmidons. “If we cannot locate Ravyn, we should look for Lord Vyros of the Dawnguard or another ranking leader.”
Frustrated, he stepped closer to her and spoke with almost-manic intensity. “Sometimes individuals shape history at moments called crisis points. Momentum gathers through
water in a river that swells after a rain. Some people can
who make bold decisions when the pressure of history is behind them. Everything hinges on these decisions. Those whose will fails them at these crisis points invite disaster.”
As he spoke he was remembering when he should have trusted his conscience and exposed Ghyrrshyld, early in the War of Houses. He had quailed, and thousands had suffered. He would not repeat that mistake. “We have found our goal. I will return to Klywen, gather my house, and begin the attack—with or without you.”
As Ossyan readied his house soldiers, Nyshyl pulled aside one of her most trusted mage hunters. “You must take word to our superiors. Kaelyssa, Garryth, or another senior strike force leader. Be swift, and impress upon them the urgency.”
He stared at her and asked, “Are you joining him in this madness? We should let him fail alone.”
“I tried to warn him we do not know enough about Skirov. I pressed for time to gather more information, but he refused.” She shook her head. “Despite this, if Nyssor is here I must witness what transpires. Our leaders must know what happens so they can pick up the trail.”
He nodded grimly. She pressed the satchel they had recovered from the Greylord courier into his hands and watched him rush away.
Within hours of Ossyan’s return, the Vyre houseguard
completed one of the Arcantrik Force Generators they had brought from Ios in pieces. These were among the major weapons House Vyre had brought to the Retribution, and the House Vyre consul had ordered Ossyan to demonstrate their power as soon as possible.
Nyshyl stared in awe at the apparatus, which towered to twice the height of the myrmidons. Enjoying her reaction, Ossyan explained that the underlying mechanisms were
House Aiesyn to maneuver giant blocks of stone, or from
warjack components. House Vyre had adapted Shyeel technology to manifest and hurl tremendously destructive
gauntlets, which they could also use to temporarily negate
feet off the ground when in transit or repositioning from
march on Skirov, but only marginally.
As the assault on Skirov proceeded, Ossyan quickly showed his skill at anticipating the enemy. When the defenders saw
wall cannons. Ossyan sent his myrmidons to shatter the main gatehouse as mage hunters clambered over the wall to
in disciplined teams, forcing the Khadorans to hunker down or be shot off the battlements. Several old Juggernauts and Destroyers emerged from the splintered gates to retaliate but
’jacks. Arcanists quickly mobilized to replace damaged myrmidon components and weld rents in armor.
Houseguard halberdiers rushed through the remains of the gates to storm the stairs and seize the battlements. The
sporadically. The Arcantrik Force Generator levitated
and sparked. This energy was unleashed to sunder stone with rending blasts of power, causing panic and chaos among the outer defenders.
Ossyan and his myrmidons advanced to confront reinforcements rushing toward them along the main street. The lord arcanist invoked energy runes to augment
tore apart Winter Guard, those soldiers exploded with such tremendous kinetic force they shredded through their nearby peers. Halberdiers marched forward behind overlapping shields to close on those who remained.
reinforcements from the main garrison as the shock of the initial attack wore off. She shouted over the tumult,
“What of the soldiers at the prison? There are hundreds more there.”
Ossyan smiled and extended his hand to send a glowing bolt through the neck of a sniper atop the roof of a nearby
keep them busy.”
He explained, “Their priority is preserving the prison, and there is no reason for them to emerge from a secured position. They won’t know our numbers. After a few
than his predictions; it was not the Retribution way to operate without reconnaissance. He hoped to demonstrate how predictable enemies were when understood.
As the battle through the streets continued, he was proven correct: no reinforcing soldiers came from the prison.
keeping citizens off balance. “Remember,” he instructed,
“every Khadoran adult is a potential soldier. They volunteer in their youth. All have been trained, and many have weapons. Still, it will take time for them to organize. Do everything you can to dissuade them from gathering.” He sent teams of ghost snipers prowling the rooftops to either side of the garrison approach with instructions to look for armed bands of citizens and shoot the leaders. “Anyone who barks an order, strike down. Leave the civilians unless
Skirov was an old city with many stout buildings of stone, its rugged people bred from warrior stock. Ossyan knew
not to underestimate them. He had spent considerable time studying the cultures and histories of the human nations. He knew Skirov to be a city noted for the piety of its people; many were of the harsh Menite faith, and even
on churches or temples lest religious sentiments become
garrison at the heart of the city, the intended destination of the coded message they had intercepted.
The garrison marched forth against them, reserve Winter Guard in Khador’s red and black, but their faces held no fervor and their officers sounded shrill facing the barrels of House Vyre riflemen. Their shaky lines collapsed under charging halberdiers closing from the flanks. As Ossyan had predicted, these rear-guard soldiers lacked the resolve of those on the front lines. He ruthlessly sent myrmidons trampling through them, tossing bodies aside and crushing others underfoot. Several more ’jack marshaled Khadoran heavies were sent, but Ossyan coordinated the firepower of his machines and heavy rifle teams with consummate precision. There was nothing like the Arcantrik Force Generator in these lands, and they could not seem to understand the shimmering waves of energy it unleashed. Ios had long practice exploiting outsiders’ fear. The defenders routed before even half had fully engaged.
Ossyan sent halberdier squads to ensure those withdrawing stayed scattered and checked the soldiers he had earlier positioned against expected reinforcements from the western walls. They had not seen movement from that quarter. He saw smoke beyond the garrison building and
and blade near him. “Were any of your strike teams sent ahead?” She shook her head. With no time to investigate, he
Hypnos were at the lead as they smashed through another line of faltering Winter Guard. The Khadorans broke and
to the squat stone garrison was cleared. Ossyan knew he must not be complacent; even without militia, the armed Khadorans greatly outnumbered his men. When they realized that, he would be in trouble. They were reeling from the assault, but that would not last.
Ossyan and the mage hunters went into the garrison
accommodate their weight.
After a few minutes of looking through rooms he heard shouting and rushed toward the source. He entered a room in shambles—a storage area, as shown by shattered boxes.
HE RUTHLESSLY SENT MYRMIDONS TRAMPLING THROUGH THEM, TOSSING BODIES ASIDE AND CRUSHING OTHERS UNDERFOOT.
off a wide stone descending stairway. These had likely been hidden behind the boxes but were now torn loose. The stone steps were half-shattered by the weight of some massive tread. The wide doorframe leading into the room showed damage as well; something bulky had smashed through.
Along the steps lay the bodies of Greylords, and all was silence below. Taking in the scene as she arrived, Nyshyl said grimly, “Someone has been here.”
“The smoke!” Ossyan rushed toward the back of the garrison, along a trail of debris from whatever had passed this way, including more dead Winter Guard. Amid them were other corpses—ancient, blackened plate armor containing the skeletons of the long dead. The rear entrance to the garrison had been blown inward. A bleeding Khadoran slumped disrupted. He had been asking the wrong questions. Some bright sun of destiny lay ahead of him, beyond the garrison, and all the strands gathered in that direction. Was this the
dark and terrible? The streams of time swirled into a roaring vortex. Ossyan realized his path had been caught in these currents. He began to feel a cold certainty that he had been manipulated. Seething, he released his vision and returned to ordinary sight. He became dizzy and stumbled as he walked into the daylight, seeing wrecked buildings and the signs of some other battle nearby, one unrelated to his soldiers.
Nyshyl reached out to steady him. “Lord Arcanist, are you all right? We should summon your thanes—”
Ossyan could not stop. He could not let the enemy escape, not when they were so close. The rest of her mage hunters were here, and his myrmidons were crashing through the garrison at his summons, but most of the Vyre houseguard were on the other side of the garrison, securing the
They rounded the next building and saw a column of Cryx charging the Khadorans who had made the mistake of confronting them. There were bane thralls and bane
them in the hisses of some forgotten tongue. Behind them, nearer Ossyan, was a stout wagon with steel-reinforced wheels; upon this sat a massive, square vault of white marble as beautiful and bright as the banes were dark. Its surface was inset with runes in gleaming silver, forming a script similar to Shyr, the language of Ios. It was Aeric, the
sacred script of the Nyss, known only to their priests and sorcerers. Ossyan felt a jolt as he realized this was their goal. All of the Retribution was scouring Khador seeking the very stone he beheld.
the wagon, each with a torso like a man, topped with a monstrous face, and wielding scythe and sickle. Flanking these were crab-like helljacks. Ossyan felt a tingling in the back of his mind as his eyes fell upon an armored entity next to the wagon. It was no bane, but neither was it alive. It held an uncommonly long and beautiful sword that left a trail of frost in its passage. The creature turned toward Ossyan,
the wagon, each with a torso like a man, topped with a monstrous face, and wielding scythe and sickle. Flanking these were crab-like helljacks. Ossyan felt a tingling in the back of his mind as his eyes fell upon an armored entity next to the wagon. It was no bane, but neither was it alive. It held an uncommonly long and beautiful sword that left a trail of frost in its passage. The creature turned toward Ossyan,