Divine Warfare

Wind and rain battered Claire as she exited the tunnel. Squinting, she surveyed the area. This church she knew well, having attended several choir auditions here at her mother’s behest. The bodies in the mud made all that a memory from a previous lifetime.

She swallowed a sob. The Peacekeepers here—retired veterans who may have given her a ride on their shoulders—had put up a fierce resistance. Not one died to a back injury. She eyed the scores of dead Zunarkians. Many of them wore shrivelled skin masks and conical hats. Gritting her teeth, she tightened her grip on her knife. How many fishermen did they murder?

She turned to the two swordsmen at the centre of the carnage. Sporting great, ebon sabres, they leaned against the wall with languid grace. Their flesh, tempered by fire, resembled chiselled granite covered in soot. She met their eyes and quickly looked away, gasping for air. Their lines of sight were needles. They were Zunarkian Templars, death dancers who only ever left their heretical hermitage to make war.

Placing one hand behind his back, Hefflin showed two fingers. Two lengths of the sword. Claire relaxed her shoulders. These Templars were neophytes—he pointed to the belfry. Following his direction, she peered up at the bell chamber.

Perched by the giant bell was a gangly figure with folded arms. The silhouette shimmered, constantly shifting between different shades of blue and green. Serpent scales. Only the Garshaluk elites donned the skin of their deities that bequeathed them air underwater. Fewer still had a jade trident etched into their helms, a sigil of divine favour. Her breathing became ragged from the mere sight of the emblem.

“Suppress and support!”

Having barked the command, Hefflin stomped the earth, shocking the two Acolytes into action. Anfer ran to him, pressed both hands against his back, and began praying. Slipping to the flank, Claire trained her dagger on the approaching Templars. Unthinking, she wove a ring of Yhom into her eyes. This was what she trained for.

Visualise and analyse. For some reason, she heard these thoughts in Isabelle’s voice. With her augmented vision, she saw much more than two Templars advancing, dragging their blades in the mud. They had each twined Yhom into a rampart of blessings. Murmuring to herself, she envisioned her knife sinking into their eyes. If she failed to unravel their clairvoyance, her brother would sleep amongst the Peacekeepers.

Her initial attack, an ethereal incision, failed to even fray the threads. The snickering Templars hastened their advance. Matching their speed, Hefflin retreated, pushing Anfer back. The Templars gave chase, until they all but broke into a full sprint.

Concentrate, Claire! Panicking, she sawed at the threads. Desperation, rather than cunning, finally drove her invisible dagger into a cord. That was when the pattern began repairing itself. She was not ready and her brother was going to die—

Suddenly, a rope snapped, then another, and another, at an increasing pace. Before long, she had picked apart a small, golden snowflake in the tapestry. The leading Templar, stunned for a fleeting moment, glared in her direction. That was all Hefflin needed.

Too many things happened at once. Hefflin tossed the prepared Sunvial. The Templar in front cursed. His trailing partner made a flanking jump. Hefflin slashed at the glass vial. There was an incandescent flash. The Templar, headless, collapsed. Rain hitting the exposed neck hissed.

Before Hefflin could finish his swing, the remaining Templar was upon him. Claire let out a silent scream. Two lengths. That number was now fatal. The sabre traced an inky arc, swiping the air. Anfer grabbed Hefflin by the scruff, leapt back, and cried out.

“Repel harm!”

Her golden shield, which could deflect boulders, shattered with a crash as though it was glass. Hefflin sputtered as searing pain tore through his ribs, inches from disembowelling him. Snarling, he hurled a dagger. The chortling Templar swatted away the projectile before he saw the glowing enchantments. A burst of crackling electricity cut short his alarmed cry. Inhaling sharply, Hefflin produced another Sunvial.

“Enough.”

A shiver unrelated to the weather coursed through Claire. The soft voice, somehow overcoming the wind and rain, felt louder than the sea serpent’s cry. Yhom flickered, dissipating as quickly as it appeared. Before Claire could blink, a screaming Hefflin dropped to his knees.

The rain became unbearably loud.

With a cry, Claire dashed for her downed brother. Hefflin clutched at his hand, or rather, the hole in it, just like the ones they saw in the Slumbering Sunrise. At the same time, Anfer jumped in front of Hefflin, layering one barrier on top of another. The figure clad in serpent scales leapt down, landing daintily without a sound.

“Rokan Garshaluk,” he drawled, his voice a guttural rumble. “Death comes, Finnardians.”

Claire almost fumbled her dagger. A Garshaluk saint! From one corner of her eye, she saw Anfer reeling back with a great shudder. Claire wanted to run. She glanced at the Peacekeepers, then at Hefflin. She renewed her grip. No. She could not die with a back injury.

As the difficulty of her mission grew, so did its clarity. Defeat the saint. Save her brother. Expel the invaders. Protect her home. Murmuring a curt prayer, Claire levelled her dagger and stared hard at Rokan. But she saw nothing, which was impossible. She heightened her vision further, until she was sure there was blood in her tears. Only then did she truly appreciate the rift between their strengths.

If the Templars were walls, then Rokan was a fortress. Patterns, meticulous and confounding, faded in and out of view. Worse yet, they constantly shifted and restructured themselves, something she had never encountered in text or training. Before despair could smother her courage, Claire hacked at the first thread she found. Her psychic slash never reached Rokan. She repeated the assault, each one more frenzied than the last. Nothing worked.

Ignoring her, Rokan raised a finger.

Claire saw the attack at last. Assembling water around his fingertip, Rokan forged it into a needle and fired it. No prayers. No patterns. No delay. Just a flash of Yhom, a burst of will imposing itself on reality. There was a crash, as if the air shattered. Anfer screamed. Now, only one layer of barrier remained between her friend and instant death.

Sprinting to the electrocuted Templar, Claire twisted his arm behind him and placed a dagger against his throat. Her captive let out a pained whimper as her fingers dug into the burnt flesh. The sticky moisture sickened her.

“You think his flesh will spare you my wrath?” asked Rokan.

“I’m a Finnardian warrior.”

“You’re not,” snorted Rokan, pointing at Hefflin. “He is.”

“Try me.”

Liquid needles curved around her hostage. Everything slowed to an excruciating pace as Claire looked over her shoulder. A watery cage, like a flower in reverse bloom, closed around her. Closing her eyes, she pushed her dagger.

“Sanctuary!”

Shouting in unison, Anfer and Hefflin shrouded Claire in a veil. The fluid threads ploughed into the bulwark, which wobbled and stretched, absorbing the piercing force. Rokan growled and pointed a finger at Hefflin, firing a salvo. Again, he found the same soft defence.

“I heard Wilkim’s firstborn was a bloodthirsty shark,” said Rokan. “To think you such a cowardly minnow.”

Hefflin flung his scabbard at the belfry. The bells chimed. He smirked at Rokan.

“Reinforcements are on the way,” he said. “You’re going to need a miracle—”

“They’re not coming,” said Rokan with a serpentine hiss. “Have you any idea how long we’ve waited? Decades.

“No, you have the impatience of youth. Victory is a fruit. Once ripe, it falls into the first hand in waiting. Our serpents now feast on the carcass of the First Fleet. Why, I’d wager my Needra has already awarded Wilkim Kirston his sainthood posthumously.”

Claire flinched. Hefflin did not.

“Claire. Kill the hostage.”

To the surprise of the Acolytes, Rokan stepped back, removed his hood, and raised both arms. Claire gasped. His hoary hair already marked him a veteran. A terrible burn defiled what would otherwise be a handsome, heart-shaped face. His scarlet eyes shimmered with a gaze, haunting and hypnotic. She wondered what torment could have forged a man into this frightful shape.

“I borrowed those two from Rieva,” said Rokan. “The Ascendant means for them to die elsewhere.”

“A false god,” snapped Hefflin.

“I’ll spare you to get one back.”

Hefflin guffawed. “Little comfort when you plan to sink the island.”

“You daft, boy? Where will our serpents nest then?”

“I care not for your purpose. Accept my terms or your Templar dies.”

Rokan nodded.

“Take the girls under your protection,” said Hefflin. “See that they are unharmed.”

“Done.”

Anfer glared at Hefflin as if he had slapped her. In equal disbelief, Claire searched his face, praying for a furtive wink or sign. Nothing.

“Heff?”

“Final order, Acolytes,” said the Guardian flatly. “Live.”

“What of you?” asked Rokan. When Hefflin did not answer, he chuckled. “How faithful.”

Tears streaming down her face, Claire watched as Hefflin plucked the dagger from her trembling hands. This was worse than the carnage she had witnessed. This was a betrayal. The warrior she aspired to become was no more. Angrily, she gave the Templar a hard shove. The man moaned and stumbled forward like a drunk.

Anfer’s rage was more direct. Returning her dagger to Hefflin, she seized a handful of his collar and raised a fist. For a moment, she contemplated whether to punch him or not. In the end, her training and discipline overcame the insubordinate urge.

“I thought better of you, Guardian Kirston,” spat Anfer. “Claire adored you. She always told me she wanted to fight just like you.”

“She is fortunate to have you,” replied Hefflin. “Please look after her.” He then addressed Rokan. “I want to see them off the island.”

The Zunarkian saint hoisted the slain Templar onto his shoulder like a log. “Make haste. Time is fleeting.”

The corpse did not slow down Rokan one bit. Claire followed, her head lowered. Defeat, just like the cold, had seeped into her bones. Anfer held her hand. Gratefully, she squeezed back. Behind them stumbled the surviving Templar. Most of his burnt skin had grown back. Hefflin, holding his gut with his good hand, struggled to keep up.

Standing by an overflowing rapid, Rokan whistled. Something roared in response. Claire and Anfer clung to each other. This sound was primal, ancient even. A long shadow swam upstream, faster than any mortal vessel. It was a sea serpent.

The creature had a girth wider than giant oaks and dwarfed most Finnardian towers. Claire gulped. Its glittering scales seemed to have captured every shade of blue in the world. From its head protruded six sharp horns, almost as if it wore a crown. Its unblinking eyes studied the Acolytes as dogs did their bones.

“Good girl, Needra,” cooed Rokan. “Ready to go home?”

Needra let out a high-pitched hiss, lowered her head, and licked Rokan like a playful puppy. Claire’s laugh was pained and hollow. The pelagic terrors that orphaned her father were but frolicking house pets.

“I’m... glad I don’t have to fight one,” whispered Anfer.

The Templar, who had largely recovered from his injuries, took the corpse from Rokan, bowed to Needra, and leapt onto the snake. Rokan prodded both Acolytes on the forehead. Claire bristled until she realised what had happened. He had sealed their Yhom without constricting their movements. It was almost polite.

Teeth clenched, Hefflin tottered towards Claire and embraced her. His blood warmed her shirt.

“You did great,” he managed weakly. “You made your brother proud.”

Hefflin stepped back. Claire swung around with a cool expression that did not survive eye contact. How could someone bleeding so badly still be standing upright? She ran towards him, holding her arms out only for him to gently but firmly push her away. He opened then closed his mouth, gave her a toothy grin, and pointed to Needra.

“Get on,” said Rokan.

“What’s to stop you from murdering us later?” replied Anfer. “Like you did—”

“Because the honour of a warrior is worth more than your pathetic lives.”

Sluggishly, Claire clambered onto Needra, who hissed but remained motionless. She collapsed onto the scales. Anfer lay down next to her.

“This is more comfortable than I imagined,” joked Anfer.

“It’s just a bit cold. And sticky.”

“You know. I bet we’ll be a priority on the prisoner exchange.”

“Yeah.”

Needra turned her back to the shores, tossed her head back, and keened. Her distant kin echoed the same cry. Claire’s hair tingled. The sea serpents were singing. The water shook, sounding a sustained, deep rumble. This was it. The waves were coming.

Claire sat up and waved at Hefflin. This would be their last farewell. But Hefflin did not return her gesture. Kneeling as if in prayer, he seemed impervious to the weather. Head slumped to one side and arms in his lap, he mirrored a puppet cut from its strings. Something protruded from his hunched posture. Claire blinked. It was the tip of his sword.

Hefflin had impaled himself.