Chapter 17 – Retaliation

Septum took a seat at the round table. Storm—the new Storm—waited behind him, uncomfortably close. He had been brought back as a top-of-the-line model with advanced pain suppression, built for ultimate durability.

Seated at the table were Prime Councilor Azor, Commander Barder Kessel, and Justinia Ford—Minister of Affluence.

Whittler would no doubt have shown up to babysit her newest acolyte, but she was supposedly occupied with ‘vital matters of warfare’ in Beria.

Barder Kessel looked visibly less excited than last time Septum had seen him, shrunken into himself. He played nervously with his cutlery and refused to meet Septum’s eye. His aura shivered like a mouse in a snowstorm.

Mara might have done her job a little too well.

They were at an outdoor function held for the wealthy of Northmark. The night air was clean and fresh, and the green grass gave off a subtle but pleasant scent.

Colored bands heavy with globular magelights hung from the trees around the park. Smaller lights bobbed like fireflies, illuminating the many tables and mingling upper echelon in their dapper suits and scandalously cut dresses.

It was an egregious safety risk, of course. Too open. An attacker could come from anywhere, concealed by the crowd. Even with Septum’s passive grasp of the auras around him, he couldn’t scrutinize so many at once.

Now that the Bluebirds had revealed their hand, no one near the head of government could be considered safe.

And yet, it was vital to put on a show, to pretend that nothing was wrong. As soon as he showed any signs of panic, the balance he had so carefully built would begin to break down.

“Couldess,” Azor said, glancing up at Septum before returning to his food. He cracked open a fat lobster with his hands and sucked out some of the juicy flesh. He placed the lobster back down on his plate and wiped his mouth with a silk kerchief. “Tamos is dead.”

“I’m aware,” Septum said. He couldn’t hide a bitter twitch in his lip. “It’s being handled.”

“You keep saying that,” Azor grumbled, “and yet disaster after disaster keeps unfolding.”

“As if Tamos biting it wasn’t enough, the Vault of Kings was impregnated,” Ford said. “As you must know by now, Gisa, the Goddess of War, has escaped.”

The Minister of Affluence was far more beautiful than Whittler. Her face was a smooth, impassive mask, with carefully applied makeup enhancing naturally delicate features. Her long, brown hair cascaded over her shoulders in perfect curls, on top of a sparkling sequin dress that followed her curves most pleasantly.

Septum nodded. He drummed his fingers on the table. “I heard.”

That was the harder of the two pills to swallow. Tamos was a good man, but ultimately replaceable. An old god, however, free to subject the world to her shackles once more? That was not a problem so easily fixed.

“The Bluebirds have been confirmed as the culprits,” Ford continued. She sipped gingerly at a tall glass of sparkling wine. “The Blue Mage was spotted on the scene.”

At least the Crown was still safe. The decoys he had distributed throughout various facilities around the city had served their purpose.

A waiter showed up behind Septum. Storm’s large frame moved in between them, but Septum held up a hand and the construct stepped aside.

The waiter glanced nervously at the metal behemoth, which stood at least two and a half meters tall. The man smiled shakily. He carried a tray stacked with glasses of sparkling wine and a half-full bottle.

“Anything to eat, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Oh no, nothing for me,” Septum said, putting on a warm smile. “I’m having dinner later.”

The waiter nodded and was about to walk off, but Septum snapped his fingers and brought him back. “On second thought, I think I’ll have a drink.”

The waiter took a glass from the tray, but Septum simply took the bottle. He raised it with a smile and took a large swig.

The waiter blanched, went to say something, then thought better of it. He managed a meek “Sir,” before hurrying off.

“Why do you both look so gloomy?” Septum asked. He kept up his false smile.

He knew it was convincing, having practiced it for years.

“The real question is why you don’t seem to be taking this more seriously,” Azor said. “Given your performance, the Council has considered launching an official inquiry against you.”

Couldess pursed his lips and nodded as if this were a minor, inconsequential detail.

“For now, you will be assisted in your search for the Bluebirds by Commander Kessel and his division.”

Kessel jerked and looked up. He briefly met Septum’s gaze, and his aura spiked with fear.

“Actually, Prime Councilor,” Kessel said, “I am afraid I will not be able to assist Minister Couldess in this matter.” He looked down at the table and let his index finger run around the rim of his untouched glass. “I am handing in my letter of resignation tomorrow.”

Azor went quiet for a few moments. He looked at Septum, then back at the commander.

“What do you mean, ‘resignation’? Look at me, Commander Kessel.”

Kessel looked reluctantly at the Prime Councilor. “The stress of my vocation has caused me to rethink my priorities. I will be making an early retirement to focus on my… family.”

Septum grinned.

Kessel was an ordinary man in almost all aspects of life. He was a dutiful soldier, a loving husband, a disciplined citizen.

Apart from his particular sexual proclivities.

It hadn’t taken long for Mesa Mara to find out about them.

Kessel quickly excused himself and stumbled off. Azor watched him go, mouth slightly agape.

Once he was gone, the Prime Councilor looked back to Septum.

“Couldess, if you had anything to do with this…”

“Anything to do with what?” Septum asked, all innocence. “What exactly are you accusing me of this time, Prime Councilor? Be careful. One shouldn’t throw stones unless one is ready to receive them back.”

Ford shook her head with the barest sigh.

Septum took a few big swallows from the bottle. He set it down, then clapped his hands together. “Now, then! Why don’t we discuss some real business?”

Before he could continue, Septum was interrupted. There was a twitch. Nothing visible, just a stirring in the web of consciousnesses around him.

He frowned.

There was a scream.

A woman dropped her glass off to Septum’s left as a man pushed through the crowd. He pulled a gun from his suit jacket and pointed it squarely at Septum.

Septum raised his hands to put up a barrier, but it was too late.

Storm stepped in front of him and spread his arms. A handful of shots dinged off his reinforced plating and ricocheted harmlessly into the ground. He walked towards the would-be-assassin as the crowd shirked away. The man fired round after round into the hulking construct, to little appreciable effect.

Storm reached him, grabbed his pistol hand, and crushed it. The man cried with agony. Storm lifted the man by his suit jacket over his head, then brought him down on his knee. The sickening crack of his spine could be heard all the way to Septum’s table and caused Ford to jump, a hand over her mouth.

Storm let the dead assassin flop to the ground. He faced Septum and the others. Half his face plating had been blown off, revealing the complex, sparking enchantments within like a spider’s web. The right side of his torso was specked with blood.

Drakemyth had pulled out all the stops in designing Storm’s new form. He had bulky limbs and a wide chassis, armored heel to scalp with heavy flexteel plating. He wouldn’t beat anyone in a foot race, but he would be able to withstand a direct detonation from a frag grenade.

Storm bowed to Septum. “Target neutralized,” he said.

The other Ironhearts Septum had positioned at the edges of the function moved in. They pulled a handful of men and women from the wailing crowd as they attempted to flee and threw them on the ground before the table. A few of them struggled, but were brutally subdued by the emotionless constructs.

They were power without emotion.

Utter obedience.

Perfect servants.

With a quick scan of their minds, Septum identified the ringleader of the gathered suspects, as well as her second-in-command.

They belonged to a splinter faction of the Imwean Church.

Interesting.

“Keep those two alive,” Septum said, pointing to the two of them. He waved his hand. “Kill the rest.”

The constructs unfolded pistols from their arms. The assassins began to beg for their lives.

Their pleas were drowned in gunfire.

“Well,” Septum said once it was over, six fresh corpses in the newly-cut grass. “I could not have devised a better introduction for my new Archon of Public Compliance if I had planned it myself. Berron Storm, people.”

Storm drew closer, staring down the Minister of Affluence and the Prime Councilor with his one functioning eye. “I exist to serve,” he said dully.

“This… thing?” Azor asked. He had shrunk back in his seat somewhat. “You’re going to make it an archon?”

“Oh, no,” Septum said, wagging a finger. “Mm-mm. I’ve already filed the paperwork. This splendid creation is an archon. My taskforce, the Ironhearts, will fetch you Granhorn on a platter, with Storm at their head.”

He stood. Storm steered his chair up against the table.

“Until then, my friends,” Septum said and took the bottle off the table, “I’ve got a dinner with my daughter, so I must be off.”

He left the two of them in stunned silence.

***

Aeva carried the unresponsive goddess on her shoulders as they hurried through the darkened complex of tunnels.

Only Gisa’s faint radiance lit the path ahead. They had chosen not to make any other light as it would attract their pursuers.

The MOA’s guards had given up the chase almost as soon as they had made their getaway from the Vault of Kings, but the truthers were on them not long after and stayed on their trail.

Even with the dizzying, branching tunnels leading to the Undercity, Aeva could still hear their echoing footsteps behind them, dangerously close.

As Gisa’s power faded, so, too, did the gift she had bestowed upon Aeva. The fire in her veins was slowly quenched, replaced by an empty pain.

The goddess had to survive. Aeva ran despite the pain, despite the strength being sapped from her muscles.

Linton stopped for a second, spun around, and cast a spell with his arms outstretched. The passage behind them seemed to blend together with the walls, making a dead end. Given his talents, it was most likely nothing but an illusion, but if they were lucky it would confound the truthers for a while.

They kept running. The truthers’ footsteps slowly faded away until they could no longer be heard at all.

“I think that did it,” Linton panted as he ran.

They spotted the gate to the Undercity in the gloomy distance. As soon as they reached it, before Linton could even repeat the ritual from last time, the gates began to swing open.

Alum Castlieri entered the darkened chamber with hurried steps, white robes trailing behind him. He was ringed by eight priests who carried pale magelights on poles, illuminating the ground and casting stark shadows.

“You have the gall to bring them to our very doorstep?” Castlieri shouted. “What makes you think you will leave here alive?”

“You might not use that tone once you see who we brought,” Linton said. He motioned for Aeva to proceed.

Aeva stepped forward. She got on one knee and let Gisa slip from her shoulders, lowering her to the ground in front of her.

Castlieri frowned. He took the magelight staff of one of his disciples and strode up to the prone goddess, illuminating her figure.

“By the gods…” he whispered.

“You’re right on that account,” Linton said. “Now, why don’t you bring this lady inside before she catches a cold.”

Castlieri barked orders to the priests, who threw their staves aside and rushed forward to hoist the limp goddess between them.

“She is badly wounded,” Aeva said.

The archpriest waved her aside. “We will handle this from here.” As the priests carried Gisa through the gates, he looked back at them. “Thank you. This is a great blessing.” He turned and followed his disciples.

“Didn’t do this for a rotten ‘thank you’,” Frost muttered under his breath.

Linton had them follow. The goddess was carried through the city as citizens gathered around the procession, only a few at first, but more and more as the rumor spread, until hundreds of bodies pressed in around them. They murmured softly, and those who could get close enough touched Gisa’s body reverently.

They reached the temple at the center of the city, and priests surged out to hold back the growing mob while the goddess was hauled inside.

She was taken to the inner chamber and placed upon a patterned rug. The wounds she had sustained from the monster hunter still wept fiery blood.

Dozens of anxious priests gathered inside the chamber. They threw sidelong glances at the Bluebirds, but none of them spoke a word.

“She’s dying,” one of the priests said.

Others assented, and soon there was a chorus of voices as the priests debated how to aid their fallen goddess. A few of them sprang forward to inspect her body, but a harsh command from Castlieri kept them at a respectful distance.

The archpriest stepped aside and spoke in hushed tones with the aged woman who served as his second-in-command. His posture slumped as their conversation progressed.

“What will they do?” Aeva asked anxiously of Linton. “She will survive, will she not?”

“Who knows?” Linton responded with a languid shrug. “Religious worship isn’t my area of expertise. It might be for the best if she dies here.”

Aeva wheeled around on him. “Why do you say that? She aided us!”

“More and more, I’m getting the feeling that we were tricked into going to the Vault of Kings.”

Aeva wished to say more, but Castlieri spoke up and addressed the whole chamber.

“In order to bring our lady Gisa back from this most grievous injury,” he said, “a sacrifice will have to be made. A mortal one. Those of you who would be willing to make such a sacrifice, raise your hand.”

A sea of hands went up. Every single priest in the room had volunteered, apart from the aged woman.

“Your honor does you all great service,” Castlieri said with a heavy sigh. Those of you I name, please come forward. Indo. Ara. Cawyn.” Seven more names followed. Ten priests joined him around the dying goddess.

“Our lives for the Church,” said one of them, an older man with a crook in his back. “What do you wish of us, Your Holiness?”

“You needn’t do anything,” Castlieri said. His eyes were heavy with sorrow. “Come. Let us join hands and pray.”

They did so, forming a circle connected by their intertwined hands as they murmured words of worship.

The aged woman shambled up to the circle of priests. She cast aside her cane, and suddenly she stood a little straighter.

“Do you willingly offer your life for hers?” she asked, stepping behind the older priest, close, almost intimate.

“Yes,” the man croaked.

The woman plucked a hooked dagger of starlight out of the air and plunged it into the priest’s spine, phasing through his flesh. He gasped, but didn’t cry out. She withdrew the blade, and the wicked hook at its edge pulled a fine thread of translucent energy from his body. She tugged at the thread with her free hand and severed it with a flick of the dagger.

The priest fell limp, and the others were forced to release their grip on him.

He wasn’t breathing.

The other prospective sacrifices shuffled, glanced down at the dead old man, but none of them backed away.

“Well, this is morbid,” Frost muttered. “Should we really let them do this? It feels… wrong.”

“These people are displaying the ultimate bravery,” Aeva retorted, without taking her eyes off the circle. “Show them some respect.”

Aeva was intimately familiar with blood sacrifice. Sometimes, when a wildkin grew too old or sick to be of use to their tribe, they would offer up their lives to Gjurin. For this self-sacrifice, they would surely earn a place at his feet.

The aged woman repeated the process with the other priests, one at a time, and entwined the mystical thread together, spooled it into a tight bundle.

Soon, ten corpses lay around Gisa. Only the archpriest remained.

The aged woman came up behind him.

“You have served me well,” she said. Her voice was suddenly smooth, silky, sultry, like a woman a fraction of her age, yet somehow beyond age itself.

Castlieri closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I am ready.”

The woman placed a hand on his shoulder. “Not yet, dear thing. You are of more use to me in this form.”

She stepped away, and Castlieri fell to his knees, weeping. Whether from joy or sorrow, Aeva could not discern.

The old woman, however, stood unbowed. She threw her head back, and her twisted back arched as her body grew in size. She clawed off her robes. Beneath it, her form was a growing maw of black night and winking starlight.

As she grew, any shell of the old crone she had been fell away and she took the guise of a woman—impossibly tall, stately, with exaggerated curves. She carried an ethereal beauty, her face smooth and pale, with a strong nose, a defined jawline, and full, dark lips. Her hair was a cascade of impossible, inky black. A pair of raven’s wings extended from her back, seeming to unfold over the whole room as she towered over everyone within it.

Now that she had shed her false appearance, Aeva sensed the power that surged from the woman. It was different from Gisa’s. Cold. Scrutinizing. Unassailable.

One thing was undeniable, however.

She was a goddess.

The priests in the chamber all gasped with the realization. Clearly, they had not been privy, either.

“Ha!” Linton shouted, leaping in place. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! Imwe, you old bat! You tricked me!”

Imwe. Is that who this is?

She was in awe at the dark visage before her.

The raven-winged goddess did not pay Linton any mind. She knelt before Gisa, plucked a needle out of nothing, and threaded the coiled-up soulstuff through it.

“Leave me,” Imwe spoke as she began to suture the wounds of the fire goddess.

The priests obliged, immediately filing out of the room, though some whispered in wonderment under their breaths.

The Bluebirds remained.

Linton gritted his teeth, staring at the two deities.

“Alright,” he finally said. “Let’s go. There’s nothing else for us here.”