Merchants and livery folk hurried in and out of the main doors of the Erudoran Embassy with boxes, baskets, and bags of goods. They ate well up here. Two whole dressed mutton on iron spikes were carried through the chaos followed by a cart full of squawking chickens in a wicker cages trailing feathers.
Outside the city walls, the regiments camped in muddy fields and ate hard biscuit and salt beef cured in great oak barrels. The wine was so sour it was more like vinegar and ale so watered down a dozen bottles wouldn’t slur a man's words. But up here they ate well.
“Party in my honor, is it?” Riot asked grimly.
Kerne chuckled. “I’m glad you still have a sense of humor. The Erudoran Embassy is hosting a ball this evening, the biggest of the season.”
Riot shook his head. “Fifty thousand long-ears on their doorstep, and they spend the night dancing?”
“We won’t see Bimil-pal until the spring, you mark my words. He won’t breach the outer defenses, and then he’ll turn back when too many of them freeze to death,” Kerne replied.
More likely the city would be ransacked twice, Riot thought. First when the regiments realized they were in a losing fight and looted the place before fleeing, and again when the Faelen arrived to pick through what was left.
This embassy would be the first stop for any veteran looter. Forget the paintings, too bulky, unless it was pissing down and you ripped up a canvas to keep the rain off. What you needed was gems and jewels for preference, but you were just as likely to get stabbed fighting over them. Silverware was the trick, a haversack full of silverware could get you halfway across the continent in comfort. Then it would be onto the main storehouses, sniffing out liquor, wine and ale like bloodhounds. The smart ones would be in the hills or on boats before long, uniforms tossed to the waves and packs bursting with loot, but most would drink themselves stupid and be dead drunk when the Faelen kicked the gate open.
Antique weapons and armor in the Erudoran style hung in the hallways, most of it useless. An axe with a carved handle that would skin your palms if you swung it, a sword in a glass case with a fat ruby in the gold hilt. Carry that and you might as well hang a sign around your neck with the words, ‘rich pickings’ painted on it. A decent looking halberd hung on one wall. Riot had trained with one in his early years in the Duke of Fallow regiment. Two and a half yards of ash haft with a two foot long blade on the end and a sturdy cross brace. A weapon for a battlefield, not a cramped hallway. He finally decided that in a pinch he would take one of the sturdy iron fire pokers from the fireplace. There's not much trouble you can’t get out of with two feet of pig iron and room to swing.
“What’s going to happen now?” Riot asked as they descended into the bowels of the residence.
“You’ll undergo the procedure to be bound to an Arcane leyline.”
“I thought the wikkan didn’t like Leybound. You don’t have a problem with this?”
“We’re not binding wikkan ley lines, are we? You’d need four of us for that anyway, and we famously do not play well together.”
They emerged into a cobbled courtyard, several stories below the embassy. The curved walls were at least thirty feet high and opened out onto the sky, creating an oasis of calm in the frenzy of the residence, but Riot’s thoughts were dominated by the large wooden table with leather straps nailed into it. Riot stopped, stock still. It was identical to another table, in another place, a long time ago. “Alric Rook had a table like this, and he was an arcanist,” he said, his voice tight.
“From what I understand, he was a part of early leybound experiments,” Kerne replied.
Human experiments. There had been broken bodies all over the place. Most of them burned, melted almost.
“They told me he was a madman, that he tortured them, but he was making leybound?”
“Alric Rook was most certainly a madman. But he was also arcanist, and the Arcanum were very careful to cover everything up. They made you a sergeant, didn’t they?”
“They told me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Well, however unsavory it was, the work of the past will contribute to your elevated chances of survival today.” Kerne pulled Riot's uniform out of a cloth sack. “I retrieved this for you. I know how sentimental soldiers are about old flags and rags, and the new leybound commander wishes for you to wear a uniform.”
The jacket was the dark blue of the Duke of Fallow, the only uniform he had ever worn. It was a battered rag for the most part, the white fabric lapels had long since fallen off, and it had been mended and patched so many times that it looked like a poor gleeman's coat.
Kerne rolled the uniform jacket into a ball as the door flew open, banging back on its hinges.
“Sergeant Riot, you’ve gotten yourself into a fine scrape, haven’t you?” Riley boomed as he emerged into the chamber.
Riot groaned softly. The last time he had seen Riley, the arcanist had been bolting away from them while they ran for their lives.
“A hedron survivor,” Riley continued. “You know there have only been a handful, I looked them up. You are the only one to keep all of your limbs. But what would anyone expect from you, eh? The last man.”
“We are fortunate to have Arcanist Riley. There were not many members of the Arcanum willing to help you. You have your former commander to thank for that.”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“Williams?”
“No, Captain Mercer. His father is a Master Arcanist of the Arcanum at Volos. There aren't many who would defy him and perform the procedure on you.”
“Fortunately enough, Sergeant, I cannot be bought. It is my solemn duty to aid a comrade in arms. That is to say, I also had certain requests that only Wikkan Kerne here could arrange for me.” Riley gave Kerne an exaggerated wink. “But we won’t say any more about that now. A wonderful surprise, what!”
Riot flinched, his nerves stretched to breaking point.
“I have an elixir that should improve the sergeant's chances of survival.” Kerne said, patting her pockets absently and producing a small vial of silver liquid.
Riley took it and held it up to the lamplight. “Fine, very fine, much better than the muck that we use over here. Drink it all up, Riot.”
“What is it?” Riot asked.
“It’s liquid linium of course. You’re not an innate magic user, and as you lack the channels for the arcane ley power to flow through, the leyline will carve them directly into your body. The linium will help to lessen your resistance and hopefully stop you from being ripped apart.”
Riley produced a hip-flask from his robe and unscrewed the cap.
“What about that one?” Riot asked.
“This, dear boy, is a very fine brandy, and though its usefulness in this procedure is yet to be proven, I remain dedicated to exploring it.” Riley took a deep pull from the flask and smacked his lips. “That’s better.”
Riot held the small glass vial, watching as the light from the oil lamps was sucked into the thick liquid.
“There’s enough there to buy a whole regiment and pay them for a year. A gift from Roveran,” Kerne said.
“And what does Roveran want in exchange?” Riot asked.
Kerne’s face was a careful mask. “You think highly of yourself, Nathanial. It’s likely that Lord Roveran has already quite forgotten all about you.”
“Now drink up, and on the table with you, Sergeant,” Riley boomed.
The door was open. He could likely make it out, grab the fire poker and damn anyone who got in his way. But what then? Even if he managed to flee the city, he had no money, and the tail end of this winter was already proving to be a bitter one. Then there was Roveran, a Leybound who commanded colonels, set far above the rank and file. If he led the combined armies of Erudor and the Arcanum, would the Leybound still be seen the same way?
Riot sat up on the table, flicked the cork out with his thumb, and drained the vial. It had a metallic taste that was unpleasant, but as far as he could tell, there was no other effect. “I can’t feel anything.”
“You will. Arcanist Riley will conduct a leyline through your body, just as if he were threading a needle. If it’s not suitable, he will withdraw it and find another. You will find the process quite uncomfortable,” Kerne explained.
“These are to stop me moving?” Riot said, eyeing the straps.
“Yes, but in this case, you won’t need them, the elixir you drank contains a formidable paralytic.”
Every muscle in Riot’s body was taken out of his control, and he flopped helplessly backwards as Kerne thrust the balled uniform out to cushion his head. He was utterly powerless, only able to take in shallow breaths as he stared up at the empty hole in the ceiling.
“That seems a little unsporting, Ritta,” Riley said with a pout.
“This is how they do it in Erudor, and most of theirs survive. Is there anything I can do to assist you?”
“I believe I understand the theory well enough.” Riley leaned over and thumbed open Riot's eyelids, so close that Riot could see the broken veins on his nose and smell the liquor on his breath. “Sergeant Riot, you are about to witness something that very few can lay claim to having seen.”
The night sky above was dark one moment, and the next, a serpent made of millions of colored strands of light snaked across it. It seemed to Riot that they were the colors of everything he had ever seen. The green and brown of the land and everything that sat upon it, the blues of the ocean and sky, and everything that flew and swam in their currents of water and air. Flickers of vibrant shades and elusive threads of black and white could be seen in the chaos that was all surging across the sky in a graceful arc that reminded Riot of a great flow of swallows, twisting and undulating.
Riot wanted to speak, but his tongue was leaden in his mouth.
“The leylines, Sergeant. We are fortunate that their path brings them to this area of the continent. Now, let’s begin,” Riley said.
A soft gray thread of light snapped out of the surging chaos above, writhing like a fish out of water before lancing down faster than Riot’s eye could track and plunging into his stomach.
It felt as though someone were cutting into his flesh with a piece of broken glass. The leypower burrowed through his veins, hungry like a wolf or some beast of the echo, searching him relentlessly before pouncing on the hedron scar and bursting out of his body.
Riley and Kerne threw themselves out of the way as dirty gray light flared out of Riots hand and battered the stone wall high above them, showering them with falling stone and dust.
The leyline snapped out of his body, whipping back up to rejoin the surging chaos in the sky, leaving an emptiness that caused his stomach to cramp and a strangled moan to escape his throat.
“Curious.” Riley stood and brushed his robe down before leaning in and prodding at the burned mass on Riots palm with a chubby finger. “The hedron's imprint is enabling the leypower to escape from his body. A crude working, and if left open, likely to burn his hand off. I can seal it off, but it might pose a problem for the spell crafter,” Riley said, looking over to Kerne.
“Do what you have to do, Master Arcanist,” Kerne instructed.
Riot felt a greasy layer cover the hedron scar, like it had been slathered with grease.
“That should hold it. Let’s begin again, shall we Sergeant?” Riley proposed.
Riot tried to say no, but his tongue lolled in his mouth.
Another gray leyline flickered out from the churning mass and plunged into Riot, the pressure collapsing his lungs. He couldn’t draw breath, and his heart was squeezed so hard that he felt the beats gradually slow as his vision dimmed.
“No, not that one, not at all,” Riley said, and Riot thought he heard a slight strain in the arcanists voice as the gray line flickered back into the churning mass above them.
The next two leylines came in quick succession, with Riley sending them snaking back up into the atmosphere almost as soon as they touched Riot’s skin.
The third felt like his skin was being flensed away.
And the fourth nearly killed him.
It was thicker than the others and moved slower, like a predator sniffing the air. Then it darted down and the moment it touched Riot's body he was blinded by gray light and a deafening silence ruptured his eardrums. Every inch of his skin was being stabbed with needles, and the stench of burning flesh caused him to retch uncontrollably. His right hand felt as if it had been thrust into the heart of a forge, and with his last scrap of consciousness, Riot remembered Colonel Williams words, and he silently begged for death.
The title of Riot's War Book Two is:
Told In Stone
I don't want to add any spoilers here, but if you can't wait for book two then come to the and become a beta reader to help me improve the final product.
