- Rune Breaker: Chapter 13 – Tales of the Rune Breaker
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 14 – Another’s Darkness
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 15 – The Tenth
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 16 – Daire City
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 17 – The Flaw in the Myth
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 18 – The Trinigon Arena
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 19 – Citadel
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 20 – Audience
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 21 – Sparring Sessions
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 22 – Grace From Outside
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 23 – Old Soldier
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 24 – Bones of the Earth
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 25 – Matasume the Wind
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 26 – Devices
- Rune Breaker: Chapter 27 – Ashes of The Dawn
First, she needed to be rid of the poison that now had her left hand closed into a knotted fist.
Gathering up the fabric of her sleeve, she used it to grasp the flechette without touching its corrupting load of poison, and gingerly pulled it out of the wound. It dropped onto the floor of the wagon with a ping. Once that was done, she looked and found what she needed most; the water basin.
“Blessed be the One Dice.” She murmured. Luck was His domain and as luck had it, she’d been washing the children’s hands and faces after dinner when the attack came. Even more lucky, the basin hadn’t been knocked over in the struggle.
She stood, noting that her left leg was starting to cramp too. The fleshknotter used on the flechettes was evidently cheap and slow acting, chemical shock aside, but it was applied in massive dollops, which meant that the effects came on stronger when they did come.
After a few limping steps to the basin, Signateria hissed in pain as she leaned on her bad arm. She needed her good arm for spellwork. Fighting back tears from the increasingly intense cramps in her arm, leg and now the ribs along her left side, she touched her finger to the water’s surface at the exact center of the wide, shallow bowl.
The words tumbled out of her, a prayer poetic, but so breathlessly whispered and hurried that it might as well have been in another language. Grandmother always told her that speaking wasn’t necessary, that the gods could see the heard of their devout, but others she’d met and seen believed that the words and the sound of the words carried power. Kaiel, as close to a Loreman as she’d ever met, agreed. So she spoke, even when she couldn’t be sure she was saying the right words.
All the while, her fingers flew over the water’s surface, drawing symbols. It was a mildly complex spellwork, but it was one she knew by heart; transmuting water into a draught of purification. Every morning for the past decade, Signateria cast this spell over a smaller bowl of water first thing in the morning and drank the results. It kept a priest healthy by washing away impurities in the body. Drink enough of it and it could cure almost any mortal disease.
As it did every morning, something warm filled her as she neared the end of the spell. The Channeling. This was the difference between mages and priests. A mage used their personal energies, or parlayed them into drawing more from the environment. A priest received the power from their god to work their spellworking.
Beneath her finger, the very surface of the water turned to ice and just as suddenly shattered. The draught was done, and not a moment too soon. Her right hand was starting to cramp as well. If it progressed much further, the draught wouldn’t be enough to halt it. With no time for propriety, she plunged her hand into the now freezing cold water and drank from her palm.
The cold worked its way down her throat, refusing to be warmed by her body heat. I settled in her belly and transformed. She couldn’t even describe the feeling the coursed through her properly. It wasn’t cold, or warm, it wasn’t painful or sensual. It was clear, the essence of clarity pulsing through her and leaving nothing behind.
And also just like every morning, it left her dizzy. Dark hair falling around her eyes, she leaned heavily on the table, catching her breath. The pains were gone, leaving only soreness in their place. Pulling up her sleeve, she found a rivulet of fleshknotter oil dribbling down her arm out of the wound. It had grown dark and cloudy; inert.
There were voices outside. Suddenly, she remembered the children. Layaka had done this. She had come to take them. It didn’t matter why, because that was enough. By the laws of the nir-lumos, that was a transgression worthy of death.
Her eyes fell upon something she’d dropped on the floor when the flechette hit her; a talisman of painted plaster painted with blue and silver. When Raiteria explained to her its function, she also explained that those were the colors of the Arunsteadeles family. Breaking it would let Kaiel, and by extension, Rai and Bromun, know that there was something wrong at home.
Without a second thought, she grabbed up the talisman and smashed it against the wall.
Then she moved swiftly for the door.
***
There were at least three poisoned flechettes in his back, that much Issacor knew. He felt each point of chill as they wept their corruption into him and the first twitches as the muscles in his back betrayed him.
No time to worry about that, he told himself. All he could think of was how Layaka was truly a monster. And as such, he shuddered to think what purpose she had going after the children. Personal pain meant nothing compared to that. Protecting them was paramount, regardless of what happened to him.
A grinding noise reached his ears and he looked up to see one of the tarnished seals in Faith-Be-Forgiven beginning to rotate: Oor-oorze, the seal of Purpose. The tarnish fell off in flakes, like ash drifting away from burning paper. The seal was unlocked and in the next moment, it sank into the blade and became active.
Strength and vigor filled him, coming alongside the clarity and speed. The pain of his wounds and the poison faded from his consciousness; unimportant. He had set foot on the path of purpose and while he fought for it, he could not be slowed, could not succumb, could not die.
He turned, Rale still cradled in one arm. With the seal of Purpose active, carrying her was no more a hindrance than carrying a handkerchief. The massive Five Virtues Sword was gripped in one hand as if it were meant for it. He took one step and it seemed to move him across nine. Suddenly, he was right up beside Layaka.
With a lowered shoulder, he collided with her, Knocking her off the course she was taking to get to Motsey. She fell, rolling in the dust before coming up with three flechettes in each hand. She sent all of them for him. None had the slightest change of touching him. His sword didn’t just smack them aside, it shattered them in air.
A shadow darkened the door of the wagon and out of the corner of his eye, Issacor saw Signateria standing there, her face hardened by rage.
Finally, the sadistic smile faded from Layaka’s face. “I really must be getting old. People didn’t just shrug off a poisoning like this in my day.” Her lips formed a thin, cruel line as she dropped the pair of flechettes she was holding and raised her arm.
Signateria started a prayer, the words sharp and angry. People did not touch nir-lumos children without permission and not expect harsh punishment.
Amet lit on Layaka’s arm and she whispered something to the bird. Instead of attacking, however, the bird flew off toward the city, climbing sharply.
Layaka reached under her coat and drew out two curved and serrated short swords, flourishing them with skill. “It’s a good thing I learned to kill in a number of ways then.”
