Skybound - Chapter 15: Red Chain

Claire Descroix stood at the top of a hill almost a mile from the stone walls and glowing magical dome protecting Fort Expedition. Winter had arrived in wrath and fury, and snow blanketed the plains around the walled city. Patches of dull red and brown slush still marked the devastation of the enemy charge, but it was already thickening in the bitter cold that followed the snowstorm. For all the harshness of the night’s frozen tempest, the brown grasses and packed dirt around her was completely clear of ice and snow.

Seven circles of blood crowned the hilltop in front of her, with three people kneeling within each ring. There was no pattern to the ritual, by intention. Claire’s taste with blood magic eschewed symmetry in favor of savagery bordering on chaotic. Raw, bristling power kept the drifting snow and winds away from the clearing as she knelt to let yet more blood drop from her hand. It glistened, red and hungry, and dim light burned in every drop to pulse along the lines already on the ground.

The rose-tinted glow spread along the lines drawn in blood, and the thrum of power drew another round of weak whimpers from the bound captives. The magic made physical restraints unnecessary; they remained bound only by her will, and more secure in that iron grip than rope or chain could have managed. The Lieutenant had withdrawn from the hilltop, backing away to leave only her personal guard flanking the Marachél. As more of her blood dripped into the circle, the glow intensified, gaining an audible hum that drowned out the panting sobs of the kneeling men and women.

“Blood for blood, to seek blood.” She didn’t raise her voice, yet it carried even beyond the hilltop, audible over the winds on the plain. “Bonds of kin to set the path, a gift given, price demanded.”

Ritual magic was never as precise as true enchantment or structured spellcraft. The words meant less than the intent, and the emotions of the person directing the power. Claire had no interest in precision this day. Power was all she needed, and when it came to practical use there existed nothing that provided more of it than blood.

“Blood is the path. Blood is the power. Kin to clear the way.” The air seemed to press down on the hilltop, growing warmer with each beat of her heart. The grass not touched by blood withered further, darkening to black as the air rippled with the intensity of the heat. The captives began to scream, struggling against the bonds of magic as their skin began to smoke and their clothes began to flake and char, falling away as ash.

Even with blood to power the ritual, there was blood, and then there was blood. Blood of the enemy was a bonfire, drawn out from cuts on the cheeks of each prisoner to mix with the blood from her slashed palm. Not all blood was equal. Something Claire understood from a lifetime of struggle within the Empire. She raised the obsidian dagger to her own chest, slicing the silk of her tunic and blouse just under her right breast. The flesh parted, and she clenched her teeth as the tip grated between her ribs. The true power of blood magic, what so few practitioners understood even in her homeland, was that the greatest power came from the greatest sacrifice.

Before she could drive the blade deeper the power of the circle flickered, something else brushing against her consciousness. A cool breeze took away the heat of the ritual for a moment, and in the gently swirling eddies of air something drifted into her vision from above. Fluttering, circling, a brilliant flash of white halted for a moment in mid-air, just long enough for her to turn her bleeding palm upwards. 

A single white feather, gleaming like fallen snow and softer than the finest silk. It lay in her open hand, slowly soaking up the splash of crimson still oozing from her hand, the white giving way to ruddy stain. She stared at the feather for nearly a minute, her magic held at the edge of her senses.

“Omen. Offer. Plea.” Her words were whispers. “Denied!” she snarled at the sky. Fingers clenched but the feather slipped from her grasp, the white and red darkening to grey and then charcoal black as it dispersed into dust.

“Blood is the choice and the path!” 

The tip of the knife pressed further between her ribs before she ripped it aside, blood pouring from her chest in a torrent of power.

“Conduit,” she intoned with a gasp, falling to her knees as the captives in the circles were incinerated in a flash of scarlet lightning.

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Calvin Descroix was lost in thought. Two miles from the hilltop where another Descroix worked sinister magic, he was hunkered down in a vacant tavern with the unconscious forms of Jacob Ward and Millie Thatcher.  Erin Ward, the General's wife, stood over them, carefully pouring healing energies into their prone forms.  

He leaned against the wall of the tavern, pondering the events of the last twenty four hours.  He was surrounded by the General's captains, and the steady stream of messengers, which was slowing down.  He finally looked away from the table he was staring a hole through, and levelled his gaze on the short, curvy life mage.  Her long hair was tied up in a messy bun, which matched her attire- 

"How are they doing, Lady Ward?"

Erin glanced up from her work and shook her head, though there was a smile on her face.

"I told you not to call me that.  It's just Erin.  As for how these two are…"  She paused, and looked at her charges.  "Flat outworked past the point of exhaustion.  I can only do so much to stabilize them as their natural regeneration works.  I'd guess Jacob will be up sooner than Millie.  He's older, tougher, and has more regeneration from the levels.  They both went into stamina and mana exhaustion."

Calvin nodded at that.  He knew that was possible, though he'd never personally experienced it.  

"Well, it was a hard day.  We broke the backs of my countrymen and it was because of them."

Erin's smile grew bigger, practically lighting up the room.  "We, Calvin?"

"Yes mil-, Erin."  That would always be difficult for him.  He shrugged, leaving it at that.

"So, you're starting to see yourself as one of us, then?  Good."

The realization that he was, in fact, starting to see himself as one of the Lancers shook Calvin.  He glanced around the room, as he considered his next question carefully.  "Why does the General never ask me about the forces out there?  When we talk, it's history, philosophy, and other things about the world.  Never troop dispositions, security issues, or what my… sister might be thinking."

The Hand of Solace looked at him directly, her smile never wavering as she replied. "Well, that's easy.  First, Jacob is a student of history.  Empires such as yours, he says, follow patterns.  Evil begets evil," she continued, as Calvin bristled at that statement, "and while magic gives the Empire different options than those of our world, the results are the same.  He says that the Empire is no real mystery, and can be broken in the same ways."

"So, why does he not ask me to make that … easier?"

"Simple.  For all that Jacob is a hard man, he's also a compassionate man.  He likes you, Calvin.  He doesn't want to put you in the position of betraying your own unless it's necessary."

"Ah.  I see."  He was beginning to understand, now.  "You know, the Empire isn't all evil," he mused, more to himself than the wife of the man who would do his best to break his homeland.  "We have many great works of engineering and arts.  Even most of the slaves are treated well.  Yes, there are those who are not, and the golden collars… are absolute.  But the black collars are not, nor are the tan and silver."

"Tan and Silver?  We haven't seen those."  

Calvin nodded, and continued.  "Tan is for those born into slavery, or sentenced to it.  They're not much different than peasants up here."  He gestured with a sweep of his hand towards the area outside the tavern.  "Silver is awarded to the highly trusted slaves as a sign of respect.  Sometimes, within their fields, the silver collared can give orders to even the nobility.  And of course, they can even earn their freedom for good work, and service to the Empire."

Erin watched him carefully, as her smile faded slightly.  "...Sounds sort of like Ancient Rome."  

"Ancient Rome?" 

"An Empire on Earth.  They fell apart about 1500 years ago.  You should ask Jacob about it sometime.  There are some interesting parallels.  But…  you know this will all change, right?"

Calvin merely nodded.

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Stev Aras stepped around a rushing messenger, nodding at the two lancers bracing the entrance to the tavern.  He'd arrived to check on Xerrioth the gravity mage, and to see if the madman in charge of the lancers had regained consciousness.  He'd had more than a few drinks in this place, one of the uncountable alehouses in the city, and it was a sobering sight to see it turned into a field hospital of sorts.  Certainly, with the lancers here, it was more organized than he'd ever seen a hospital be.  Rumor was that that was the General's wife's doing.  

Since the charge had largely lifted the siege, Stev had been busy.  There was endless work distributing supplies, seeing to the wounded, and insane amounts of clean up. The Black Lance had encamped across the great square in the center of the city, and already the greedier local officials had forgotten gratitude and begun scheming to gouge them for coin.  How his mother managed to wrangle all these personalities was beyond him.  It was exhausting.  He stood in the tavern in silence, watching the healers moving with purpose, and listened to an exchange between Erin Ward and Calvin Descroix.  He knew he'd need to talk to the General, and soon.

Stev cleared his throat, and both Calvin and Erin looked to him.  Erin spoke first.  "How can we he-,"

Her question was cut off by a low rumble of thunder and the suddenly violent shaking of the ground.  What natural light filtering in from the windows was replaced by an unnatural darkness.  

"Get down!"

Stev was never sure who yelled out- it could have been him for all he knew- as the glass in the tavern windows exploded.  He could see the coruscating arcs of terrible, crimson lightning striking all around outside even through closed eyelids.  The tremors in the ground intensified, and he could hear wood and stone groaning outside and nearby.  Instinctively, he knew the Deskren had brought something utterly terrible to bear against Fort Expedition.

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Jenna Tillerson had thought herself resistant, if not immune, to the horrors of battlefields. Her time on the march with the Black Lance as she and her husband followed Jacob Ward across half a continent had certainly given her plenty of experience with violence. After the rush of the march, the frantic panic of the charge, and the exhaustion of such continuous and intense spellcasting along with it, she had dropped to sleep almost before the tent flaps closed behind her. Her husband Davin had remained awake, coordinating the Lancers and organizing the distribution of supplies with the merchant Belka and the city officials. She could tell he still hadn’t slept when he woke her with a bowl of sliced pears and a steaming mug of kaffen. She was too tired to properly appreciate the craggy good looks of her husband as she sat up, nodding silent thanks as she sipped the welcome brew.

“They’re still not awake,” he said softly in answer to her questioning look. “The Duchess is seeing to them now.”

“And the supplies?”

“Well in hand. Merchant Belka knows his business, and Stev Aras keeps the locals from getting greedy.”

Jenna finished the fruit, sipping kaffen with a grimace. The General’s penchant for a much stronger brew had spread through most of the Lance, the bitterness an acquired taste she had yet to develop. She finished off the mug, reaching to place it back on the small folding table. Her muscles ached as she stood, her tall, lithe body stretching to relieve the tension.  She examined her sun-darkened hands as she looked skyward through her stretch.  Finally, she tied her wavy dark hair into a messy bun as she regarded her husband with a smile that turned into a frown as she briefly sensed a surge of mana in the distance, and turned her head as if listening.

“Something wrong?” asked Davin.

“I’m not sure. It’s too far away to be happening within the city, but for me to sense it in the middle of so many high levelled people…  it's strange."

As if to punctuate her statement, the flaps of their tent began to flutter, as if a strong gust of wind had taken hold.  It stopped as quickly as it had begun.

Davin glanced at the entryway, and then back to his wife.  His normally clean shaven face had a dusting of stubble, further indicating the lack of rest.  He continued. "We have the Lance organized and are sending patrols to assist the locals.  The Deskren appear to have given up direct attempts to breach the shield and the walls, and with the mana potions distributed, the local mages have managed to reinforce the shield.  We took a number of casualties on the charge, but they got it worse."  He smiled at that.  "All things considered, as soon as Jacob is up, I think he'll be pleased at the situation."

“The foot troops held up surprisingly well, but the mages are exhausted. None of us are trained for that intensity of casting, not continuously. Please talk to him!”

“You may just regret that,” he chuckled. “He’ll have all of you drilling spells alongside the infantry and their shields.”

“Better that, than burning out. Alessa Tull and the Jensen brothers collapsed in the middle of the mortar ritual. If they can chill a cup of wine before the week is out, I’ll be amazed.”

His brow wrinkled in thought. “Didn’t they train at the Magisterium in Meadowspire?”

“Only for the standard year. The magic schools mostly teach theory anyway, except for Stormbreak. The farm folk are actually stronger in raw power than most tower mages. They’re just more heavily invested in a few skills and spells useful to their trade, like me.” She shook her head. “A [Water Witch] has little use for fireballs and lightning bolts. If we were still in South Hollow most of my work would have been drawing water for your father’s fields. Good thing we eloped.”

“Father never did like my class, or yours. He’d never heard of a [Swiftmane Charger] for a rider’s class, and he always wished I’d chosen some form of mercantile or administrative life. They couldn’t catch us though,” he said with a grin. “Not after you called rains to hide our tracks and slow them down with the mud.”

She leaned into him for a brief hug, enjoying the short moment of privacy in the tent. “He won’t have us resting on our laurels, Dav,” she said, reaching back to tie her hair out of the way. “We might as well start getting everyone sorted out-”

She felt mana surge, not just in the distance but all throughout the city. The ground lurched underfoot, and she fell against Davin, throwing up a meager shield spell. The tent was ripped away by suddenly screaming wind as the cobblestones paving the square shook loose from their mortar. Horses shrieked and reared in panic, lancers and luparan scattering in the chaos.

Davin stepped out of range of her shield as the shaking subsided, his [Soothe Beasts] skill spreading in a wave as he pulled a Luparan recruit backwards just in time to avoid the hooves dropping back to the ground. While generally effective with any animals, his class made it even more effective with horses, and he visibly tensed from the effort of extending the effect over the entire square.

The wind had pulled more than just Jenna’s tent from its traces, and peeled the canvas off dozens of wagons. The air stilled, shouts and screaming fading as a hush descended upon the city. Almost immediately, she felt the strange mana surge again as angry red lightning danced through the city streets. It arced from building to building, rumbling explosions that seemed scattered randomly around the middle of Fort Expedition. Then the red glare intensified, and solid ropes of crackling crimson danced under the protective barrier overhead. The spell danced through the city, huge tendrils of power splitting off the main trunks to whip through the streets tearing apart buildings and people with equal ease.

One thin thread arced close to where Jenna and Davin stood, blasting stones out of the street as it homed in on a man in the uniform of the local guardsmen. He ran, but the buzzing line of magic zipped along and struck his foot before chewing its way up his leg to his spine. It blasted his lower half into smoking giblets of offal and bone, leaving his torso to fall to the ground. His expression of pained shock burned into her mind as he slumped forward in death. 

More red lightning lit the morning sky, lashing frantically down into the ground, dancing through the city towards the walls. Small bolts converged into larger ones as the magic raged, and a torrent of power as wide as a horse blew one of the city’s shield towers into flying rubble. The enchantments from the wards failed around the building, flinging stones out in a deadly shower of thudding death and gravel. The top of the tower tilted, then slumped into a neighboring building with a groan. More thuds hammered the air, dust followed by smoke billowing across the town.

Two heartbeats and it was over, and Jenna turned to see Davin staring in shock. She turned to follow his gaze as Stev Aras and Calvin Descroix rushed out of the tavern. All four simply stared at the three massive breaches in the walls. Stone and timber still tumbled, but the blasts had annihilated the dwarven stonework. The nearest gap was just visible between the buildings in the distance, wide enough for six men to pass abreast. Dread flavored the air, tension pulsing as the crowd in the square, mostly unscathed, came close to panic as the shock began to fade.

Davin looked to the shocked lancers, and denizens of the city. His sandy blonde hair was caked with dust, and his visage was grim as he barked a series of commands while striding for his horse.  

"Lancers!  Rally on me!  We've got breaches to plug!  Aras, take the east."  His eyes searched for the nearest available Lancer officer.  Failing to find one as he'd previously sent the squadron commanders to check on their patrols, he sighed, before continuing.  "DESCROIX!  Take the west.  Rally the irregulars, stragglers, and any citizens you can find.  Plug that wall, soldier!"

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Dreigrar could smell the fear in the air, and Colonel Davin’s rapidly barked orders pushed back against it as Soldiers snapped to attention and began to move. His squadmates fell in around him as the lordling gave orders in the absence of the General. He didn’t fail to notice Lady Jenna’s narrowing eyes and sudden scent of apprehension when Calvin Descroix was called. The man himself was visibly startled, but the authority in Lord Davin’s tone forestalled any chance of disobedience.  The effect of whatever Skill he used was a comforting balm to the luparan soldiers, and they saluted as Calvin began pointing as he headed for the street that led into the lower city.

He heard the screams in the distance well before they were audible to human ears, and growled in unison with his squad. Tanra loped along to his left, her scent filled with eager apprehension. The other two of their unofficial pack followed to his right, having earned no names in the empire and not yet settled on choosing for themselves now that they had been taken in by the Lance. Lady Jenna had to jog to keep up with them, following close on Calvin’s heels. She seemed as wary of the Descroix scion as she was of the side alleys and shadowed corners of the city itself. Dreigrar understood the sentiment. The northern Lady didn’t have the luxury of his sensitive nose, and thus could not smell the genuine concern or the lack of treachery that he could scent from the captive princeling.

They quickly approached close enough for the humans to hear the screams, and Calvin sped up, activating a Skill with a shout. “[Rapid Advance]!” They turned where a collapsed building had covered the road in rubble, stepping over blood sprays and bodies strewn across the path. The alley was clear of rubble, but red and black smears of charred flesh and bone told more stories of the terrible workings of the red chains of power.

“We have to hurry,” Calvin panted as they crossed another street, following the screams. “Standard Imperial doctrine for raiding fortified cities!”

“What does that mean!?” shouted Lady Jenna, struggling to keep up with the Luparan irregulars.

“Easiest way to take the place,” answered Tanra before Dreigrar could. “Take hostages, use as leverage.”

“Have to stop them before they get a foothold,” growled Dreigrar, leaping over the remains of a woman missing one arm and her head. “Or in two days these people will be fighting off their own neighbors. Those who won’t obey even with black collars will be forced to drink rageflower nectar, going mad and fighting until they die.”

Conversation cut short as they rounded another corner, coming to a halt to see a dozen guardsmen fighting off imperial soldiers in front of a building with its front and part of one side collapsed. A group of small children huddled behind a pair of slightly older boys, chanting frantically and casting soft blue light into the group of guardsmen and women defending them. Bodies lay broken on both sides, and the defenders were losing.

Calvin didn’t hesitate. “[Steady Steps]! [Attack Stance]! Take them!” he shouted, and as the skills effects activated, Dreigrar and his squad flowed to either side in a rush. Calvin hit the imperial soldiers first, his sword ringing off a shield to throw the man off balance just in time for his face to be crushed in by a gauntleted hand. And then the 1st Irregulars of the Black Lance were upon them.

With most of the soldiers focused on the guardsmen, Dreigrar and his squad hit their flanks like a wickedly sharp and extremely angry scythe. With no collars or overseers to force the beastkin into a standard infantry formation, their natural pack instincts were finally allowed to come to the fore. With claws and teeth they hit the Deskren, dancing back and forth to dodge around the blades of the suddenly frantic soldiers. His claws opened the throat of the first one that turned to face him, and he ducked down then lunged to the side to avoid a darting spear. A snarl to his left signaled Tanra dealing with another Imperial who had tried to strike at his flank.

Mana surged, close, and Dreigrar could smell the water magic in the air as Lady Jenna threw a swirling orb of jagged ice into the middle of the Deskren formation. It detonated with a whump! Bodies flew, and everyone stood still, startled by the sudden silence. A woman in the city guard uniform and a sergeant’s markings leaned on her spear, panting with exhaustion. Calvin extracted his sword from the chest of a fallen Deskren, using a booted foot to steady the corpse as he yanked it back.  Sheathing the sword, he hefted the fallen enemy soldier's halberd, turning to face the city guardsmen.

“Get the children and the wounded to the central square, there’s healers and safety with the Black Lance,” he spoke to the Guardsmen. “Any of you able and willing, we’re headed to the gap.”

He put words to action, not staying to watch. Dreigrar and his squad followed, with Lady Jenna quietly running alongside. Jenna and the Irregulars both stumbled to a stop as Calvin strode off, halting to look down at the street where the man had just walked away.

A feather, gleaming with silvery white light, fluttered in lazy swirls to settle on the ground. Dreigrar looked from the feather to Jenna, not understanding her expression of shock, but sensing something profound just beyond his understanding. She smelled of surprise and wonder, as she reached down to take the feather in her hand.

Calvin Descroix didn’t even notice, and they followed after as he charged towards the nearest sounds of battle on his way to the breach. There were only a few straggling civilians between them and the outer wall, most having fled further into town to get away in the aftermath of the magical assault. Nothing and no one challenged them the rest of the way to the gap. They rounded the last corner, in the shadow of a building miraculously untouched by the spread of destruction and rubble, and there it was.

The western breach was the smallest, but it was still almost six feet across. They halted, and Dreigrar could smell shock and dread suddenly surrounding Calvin. In the gap, wreathed in angry red light, stood a slim figure in chainmail skirts and gleaming breastplate lacquered red around the edges. She held a rod of ebony with a glowing red pearl at the end, and was flanked by two muscular and oversized Luparan with bands of gold around their necks. The woman tilted her head to the side, eyeing Calvin with obvious recognition.

“Interesting,” she murmured, quietly enough Dreigrar could barely make out the words. Calvin’s scent roiled with turmoil as he shook his head. It was then that Calvin locked eyes with his sister and charged.