Asheron's Fall: The Power of Ten, Book Six

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“They will take back word of the Storm, of the Wrath, of the Lightning, and most especially of the Thunder that echoes in their souls,” I replied to the Mick. “Every red-handed massacre and bloody sin that they exulted in as true and proper displays of their might will echo and scream in their memories of the vileness that it is, and they will doubt, they will have nightmares… and they will have dreams.

“I have done nothing more than planted a small seed, but as you know, the smallest seed can crack the stoutest stone given time, and they are nothing but stone.”

“I see your good friend Aun Shumua slunk away,” Princess Kristie snickered.

“My Lord, certainly he told them of the schedule for the Portals opening and closing! The Hea and Gotrok might attempt to raid when the moon turns!” Selena Arswick blurted out urgently. “We should have, we can still-!”

“They’ve known about it fer years, lass,” the Mick cut her off shortly, clearly not concerned. “The Hea are hunters. They wanted to find out, an’ so they did years ago. It’s why we always have people on both sides when ‘tis time, to make sure there’s no ambush. Not that they are likely ta get a large force through the area without the shades smelling them. Dinnae worry about it.”

“You, you mean the Shadows, sir?” the youngest of the group, a Sho lad by name of Mizaya, asked hesitantly.

“I hae been blithely informed that former mortals infused with the Essence o’ Shadow an’ Darkness an’ similar energies are known as Shades. Undead incorporeal spirits that can pass through stone and drain yer strength with their touch, ALSO Shadow-infused, are properly called Shadows, because they ain’t material anymore, see,” the Mick said loftily. “We shall call them the shades henceforth an’ be proper scholars about it all, because it fits, y’see.”

The scouts mumbled about the change to themselves, and were surprised to agree that it did seem to fit better.

“Did you run into these ‘real shadows’ somewhere, sir?” the wide-eyed Selena asked urgently.

“No, but the lasses here have. Oh, oh, me manners! Me mother wouldnae forgive me for such a terrible oversight.” He clasped his hand to his leathered chest dramatically. “The bonnie lass with the terrible eyes that are seein’ all yer darkest secrets there is three weeks outta Ispar, a new arrival, by name o’ Devra al-Ryinth, a true blue Gharu with all the magic-loving, an’ a completely new magical Tradition she be carrying around all proud an’ smug an’ whatnot. Aye, lass?”

I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t know about smug, Lord Mick...”

Somehow he’d forgotten to mention he was considered an Important Person along the way. Just an oversight, surely.

“An’ this tall drink o’ throat-cutting nastiness be Her Imperial Highness, the Princess Kristie Rantha-Briggs o’ the Empire of Ispar. Ye can all bow now,” he waved airily.

They gaped at him, his light words, and looked at Kristie, who Drew Herself Up.

“Bow?” the Mick repeated, and there was a dangerous flat note to his voice now as they gaped at the young woman who had barely moved, and suddenly was Very, Very There, dominating everything.

They jumped, and hastily bowed to her. “Highness!” “Highness!” “Highness!” rang out urgently, with at least some Isparian attention to class status.

“Aye, now,” the Mick beamed, dangerous tone dropping away as if it never were, turning and giving Kristie a flamboyant courtier’s bow of his own. “Yer Imperialness, may I present to ye me daft an’ shoddy students, not a lick o’ sense nor a hint o’ competence between them, the infamous an’ much-cursed, completely overlooked, oft-derided, totally unloved, money-grubbing, happily mocked, an’ unscrupulously haggard Royal Scout Legion of Dereth, dirty scamps that they be.”

I noted they were all smiling in relief at his insults. “If they’re a tenth as unscrupulous as you, Lord Mick, I imagine their levels of incompetence reach absolutely terrifying heights of talent at their jobs,” Her Imperial Highness Kristie Rantha-Briggs replied wickedly.

He beamed even more widely. “Aye, well, they get underfoot an’ fumble about, such as they are. Little cockroaches they are, yer Highness.”

Selena leaned forwards. “Imperial Highness, Lord Mick?” she asked carefully, eyeing Kris carefully.

“Either the pair of them be the finest liars in all o’ Creation, sparing me uncle the task o’ finding an heir, or there’s been a lot o’ changes back on the world o’ Ispar, Roach Queen,” he said out of the side of his mouth, making no attempt to lower his voice. “Yer mother will be happy t’ know the Viamontians got what were coming to ‘em.”

“And how,” I added to that. I noted no blues among the scouts.

The Mick noticed my glance over them. “Aye, there’s no blues among me roaches, lass. That blue skin a’ theirs ain’t given t’ skulking about like a proper roach, an’ the rats an’ spiders pounce on ‘em. What of them fled with us tend t’ like the standing army what’s more, not a job that requires great fools, incompetence, an’ the well-heeled cowardice to run away at the drop o’ a hat.”

“Oh, they still love their overdone, heavy armor, I take it.” Kris was sorely amused as the scouts straightened up proudly. The insults were just one way of making sure his students never took themselves too proudly or too seriously, she could tell at a glance, and they ate it up. The subconscious effect of never being good enough, always having to do better, never playing up how awesome they were, filtered through them, keeping them hungry to improve, and made them quiet fanatics about self-improvement, if only to someday earn a real compliment from his lips.

The Mick was better at being a leader than he’d led on, but that didn’t seem to have surprised Kristie at all. Better at sensing courtiers trying to play her, probably.

Well, he was a Twenty in our parlance. If he wasn’t horribly competent and an important person, I guess they’d be total idiots, although he’d played the roving free-wheeler doing his personal duty so well I’d overlooked the possibility that he really did have some status.

“Lass, ye’ve some way to send Messages to those ye know, aye?” the Mick asked, turning to me.

“I do...” I nodded carefully. The Allegiance system ran on Messaging, for example, powered up by the Allegiance Oaths.

“We once had the power t’ speak at a distance an’ spread news quick, but it faded with the Fall, which were its own manner o’ disaster at the time,” he told me. “Can ye send a Message to people I know?” he asked me directly.

“Use the Mark to convey to me their names and faces, Lord Mick,” I responded calmly, a swirling Holo screen a few feet across rising in front of me.

He lifted an eyebrow, opening the Markdoor, and visualized one by one the names and faces of the people he wanted to contact.

I popped them up back in the Holo in front of everyone, drawing whispers from the scouts as the faces and figures of those they knew appeared in front of them in very accurate illusions, more precise and alive once the Mick was able to focus in on them and filled in the little details and imperfections from memory… complete with animalistic tweaks here and there which obviously did not belong. They drew knowing snickers from everyone around at impressions of fox, dog, cat, deer… and cockroach on some of them, especially the sour-faced woman in blue robes there.

“The Messages?” I asked, and the blinking line and cursor I visualized popped up in front of them all, raising more eyebrows.

“This be the Mick, reporting that Aun Shumua did finally stoop t’ consorting with the Gotrok, an’ attempted to lure yer fellow Scouts inta a trap. If ye see him, trust him not, an’ belike shove a spear inta his guts if he gets close enough, we’ve no use for traitors.” Everyone watched the words type themselves out in remarkably clear and easy to understand symbols, none of the fancy curves of courtly calligraphy. The Mick even leaned in to stare at the font in fascination, holding up his hand. “We be heading down ta Mayoi. Two new arrivals have come through the Portals with some news o’ minor happenings back in the old world, an’ they seem a mite impatient t’ get back t’ what we call civilization hereabouts, gods know why. They seem t’ believe they can get off the shore an’ across the waters t’ the islands without needing the Portal.

“I’ll be going along with them, an’ yer all welcome t’ join in with us on this great farthing adventure most likely t’ get us all killed and eaten by a remoran. Come t’ Mayoi, ‘twill be great fun!”

I lifted an eyebrow, but nobody seemed at all surprised at his irreverent tone.

“Send that to me fellow cockroaches, and then, to the fine upstanding Minister of Intelligence...” He cleared his throat as all the scouts rolled their eyes. “Aisely, coming back t’ the islands early. Found some newcomers from Ispar. Full report then.”

All the scouts broke out guffawing, while Kristie raised an eyebrow.

“Command problems, Lord Mick?” she asked archly, watching as I illustrated the process, lining up the image of each scout up, and suddenly the Mick’s faint voice echoed out, each word lighting up as spoken for the highlighted image. The scouts watched the process repeat over and over, with one addendum.

“Immediately reply to confirm receipt of Message,” in my cool voice, at the end. Coms officer, gotta be calm.

Surprised voices echoed out shortly after each Message was delivered, stating it was received and they’d be there, with not a few leading with curses on Aun Shumua’s name, too.

“She’s a money-grubbing witch with a mind like a steel trap an’ about the same morals,” the Mick responded in the closest thing to a hiss I’d heard in his voice, watching and listening to each Message going out, and the replies. “She’ll send men t’ die without batting an eye, an’ wonder why there aren’t more t’ sacrifice on her climb t’ power. The last time she tried to order me roaches around, I nearly took off her head, so we get along like shoestring cousins now. She sends me whatever I request, I report to her when I godsdamned need ta, an’ the next time she orders one o’ me roaches t’ get themselves killed, she’s going for a one-way trip inta the drink, ‘cause the Shoreward don’t affect the dead, an’ them remorans be loving some fresh ironhearted bitch, they be.”

“She sounds like my teacher,” I opined, Mira nodding urgently in the back of my head. All the scouts were muttering agreement under their breaths, too.

“She thinks people don’t remember she were working for the undead before in the Eldrytch Web, the same undead what slaughtered as many people as they could on the flight to the islands. Aye, she’s smart. Aye, she’s good at managing information, an’ she knows their languages an’ how t’ treat with ‘em. She’s a bloodless witch who lets good men die so she can worm her way in closer t’ power.”