“Stealing your kills, it looks like,” the boy answered as Or’Valde provided a fresh kill notification to each of them. “Or saving your life. But I should ask you the same-”
“It has to wait,” Alarion interrupted. “It is not dead.”
“I received a kill notifica-“
“So did I. That was my second.” Alarion stumbled into the street, looking up and down as he chugged another potion to drag his HP back above zero. “Find the legs—I will kill the arm.”
“What?”
“It is… I do not know, a hive? Its consciousness is spread out over several body parts. At least one of them is still alive.”
It took them five minutes to track down what they could find of Or’Valde. His arm was crawling its way through an alley nearby, while his left leg and pelvis split apart to try to evade the ever more confused and disgusted Dimov. The right leg might have been destroyed by [Orphan’s Fated Strike] if Or’Valde had brought it up defensively, but Alarion doubted it.
His quest was still active.
The remaining piece—or pieces—must have snuck into a storm drain or found some hidden nook to conceal themselves. Fortunately, the fragments did not appear to be very intelligent when separated from the main body. With luck, they’d find it during the cleanup.
“So you were here the whole time?”
“Yes, it made more sense for me to stay and assist the medical staff dealing with refugees than to spend days walking to Ilvan-Trai, only to turn around and march right back for the show of arms. I was never much for ceremony,” Dimov said. “I wrote you a letter two weeks ago.”
Alarion really needed to start opening his mail.
Then again, if he had, he would have sent someone to fetch Dimov before the attack, and he’d have likely died as a result. It was dumb luck that Dimov had been dining only a few streets away when the attack started.
Dumb luck, or fate. Had someone died tonight so that fate could put Dimov in just the right place to save him? All because Alarion was overconfident?
They were seated together—under protest—in the kitchen of a villa turned makeshift infirmary, a block away from the Ikeda Estates. Alarion had insisted on getting back in the fight immediately, but Dimov—and his own grisly arm—had vetoed the idea. Besides, there was little left for him to do but wait.
The fighting had died down by the time the two of them reached the outskirts. The Bones were either dead, captured, or hiding. A half dozen had been dragged out from closets, crawl spaces, and attics, and they were sure to find more once they finished dismantling the anti-divination field that had activated the moment the attack began.
Hopefully, Centre would be among them.
They had men that fit his description, but none Alarion considered a promising candidate. Most surrendered themselves the moment they were confronted, spilling their guts faster than the Ordinates could take notes. Most seemed to think they’d get a better deal if they spoke before others. Stupid. The only thing they could barter about was the length of the rope.
No, if Centre were here, if he even existed, he would be a zealot. Alarion remembered the Ashadi woman they’d captured in Shae-Yomag, Lini. She’d been gleeful about the murder they’d committed and willingly taken her own life rather than give them anything they wouldn’t already learn. Centre would kill himself if confronted, but not before making a show of it.
“Specialist Dimov,” Williams said, ducking his head under the low door as he entered. “I hear I have you to thank for saving my Orphan. Again.”
Alarion bristled at being called his Orphan, but let the two men exchange pleasantries before he asked, “Any news?”
“Sadly, not. If he is still here, we will find him, though I consider this a smashing success.”
“Twenty-two of us are dead,” Alarion said, biting back his disgust at the man as best he was able.
“As are at least two hundred of them, along with nearly as many captured.” Williams saw the argument fall flat and adjusted his tone. “The losses are far more than I would have liked, but consider what you prevented. This was more than just a meeting. We have captured financiers, trainers, and arcane specialists, and killed dozens of their combatants. They were here to plan—or even to enact—their next strike. The twenty-two brave souls who died here tonight may have saved the lives of thousands.”
It was not an easy argument to refute, and Alarion hated that it made sense. His subordinates were dead, but they’d saved lives the same way his comrades had at Carling Hill. And at least this time they’d had a choice in the matter.
“Mm.”
“It is not easy,” Williams said, clapping him on the shoulder as if he knew anything of loss. “But be proud. Of them, and yourself.”
There was a commotion outside, and Williams couldn’t quite hide his smirk.
“Vaelde! Vaelde! Vaelde!” the chant roared.
“Since the local Auxilia have taken over the cleanup, I thought it safe to tell your martyrs where to find you.” And the media, no doubt. “Shall we?”
“Can you give me a minute or two? I am still catching my breath.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Williams clicked his tongue in annoyance but chose not to press the issue. “A few minutes alone to gather your thoughts would be wise, I think. Though I find you speak better off the cuff. I will have one of the Ordinates bring you a jacket to cover the worst of your arm.”
“Thank you.”
“Specialist, a word, if I could?”
The two departed, but it wasn’t long before other voices replaced theirs.
“Are you incapable of looking out for yourself?” Nessa said, her quivering voice jammed halfway between relief and fury. “Because need I remind you-“
“I know. I am sorry. Chasing Or’Valde alone was reckless, I just…”
“You thought you could stop the fighting if you caught him.”
Alarion laughed. “For someone only a few months old, you can be surprisingly insightful.”
“I try. Maybe listen to me?” Nessa smacked the back of his head as she passed him, then looked down at his arm. She reached out to touch it, then thought better of it and brushed a finger across the bridge of his nose. “Do you think it is going to scar?”
“Maybe.” The scar Sierra had left him had been fading over the last few months as the sympathy tied to the wound mingled with his connection to Nessa. The damage Or’Valde had done had been far more severe, but their only bond had been a forced one. Dimov’s healing had already repaired the worst of the damage, leaving an arm coveredd in lines of fresh, pink skin. "A few hairline ones, I would guess. Less if we find and kill it. Speaking of which… ZEKE, any luck?”
“A wyrd parasite. Or rather, several of them,” ZEKE said, all too happy to be able to flex his knowledge for once, especially after he’d failed to penetrate the stealth of some of the escaping parts. “That is w-y-r-d, not… w-e-i-r-d. They’re a Systemborn species that nest inside other Descendent races. They access the skills, memories, and Attributes of their host body while slowly mutating them into… that. Though rare, some parasites form a collective of sorts, moving together from body to body and utilizing their combined abilities to make something stronger than the sum of its parts.”
“So the ones that survived are weak?” Alarion asked.
“Relatively. They are incredibly vulnerable outside a host body, and they grant only a portion of their Attributes to their host. If it finds a stronger body, then it could pose a threat. As a disembodied leg without access to any tools, its greatest danger would be to any unawakened who stumbles across it.”
“Alright, I will tell Bergman so that he can convey the risk to Williams.” Alarion didn’t like laundering information through his friend like that, but the more seriously Williams took the situation, the more likely he was to devote resources to it.
Once he was finished passing along the information, Alarion turned his attention to the System notifications that had piled up during the evening’s events.
Level Up! Congratulations, your Orphan Class has advanced to Level 42! STR +10. AGI +15. VIT +10. INT +10. PER +10. WIL +10. LUK +192.
Level Up! Congratulations, your Indomitable Warrior Class has advanced to Level 7! STR +48. AGI +48. VIT +72. INT +48. PER +48. WIL +48.
Level Up! Congratulations, your Unraveller Class has advanced to Level MAX! STR +5. VIT +5. INT +5. PER +5. LUK +6.
New classes available.
Alarion excitedly skimmed through his rank up options, and felt his heart skip a beat. The options were good. Great, even. But none of them were the class merger that he had spent months working toward.
“Something wrong?” Nessa asked, reading his expression.
“It is not here,” Alarion whispered, as if worried saying it aloud would make it even more true.
“What is not?”
“Ah, the young master is preparing to throw a fit over nothing.” ZEKE chuckled. “Check your available skills.”
Alarion frowned, not the least because of ZEKE’s suggestion that he was about to throw a tantrum, but did as he was told.
There were three options, but only one that mattered.
Act of Will [Ancient] (Merger)
Description: It is no easy feat to bring two paths together long after they have diverged, nor is it one to be taken lightly. Many have tried; through dedication, through tricks or sheer unbridled stubbornness. They have tried, and they have failed. You have not. Only an Indomitable Warrior could endure such difficult and painful training. Only an Unraveller could weave together that which stand apart. Only an Act of Will can bind them together.
Requirements: Class - Indomitable Warrior. Class – Unraveller. Upgrade at least 4 Unraveller skills, including one Spellcraft Mastery. Upgrade at least 4 Indomitable Warrior skills including one Weapon Mastery. All Attributes 500+.
Type: Active/Will.
Effects: At a variable MP cost, the user may impose their Will on their surroundings, creating a Zone of Refusal. Foreign magic is heavily suppressed within this Zone and becomes substantially easier for the user to dispel. The MP cost of this skill will increase when attempting to suppress stronger spells or other impositions of Will. The MP cost of this skill will increase relative to the area covered.
Growths: WIL +14.
“This…” Alarion murmured, reading the skill a second time in utter disbelief.
He’d heard about such skills in the past. Will type skills were something typically reserved for Rank III and above. They were one of the things that separated those higher ranks from the ones beneath them on a level beyond just Attributes and levels. Ruin, famously, had the Will of Gravity, an innate ability to distort gravity that was at the heart of every aspect of his fighting style.
Alarion had hoped and perhaps even expected to earn one—assuming he lived long enough. But to earn one at Rank I? Even as a capstone power, with a huge number of requirements, it seemed absurd. It was perhaps a little weak, but it would grow with time.
“ZEKE, the System gave me-”
“Shh-“ ZEKE whispered in his ear, his universal sign for ‘someone is close enough to overhear’.
A few seconds later, the villa’s front door opened, and a set of footsteps clicked on the tiled floor. They went left first, then right, then left again as the man tried in vain to find the kitchen in the spacious abode.
“I am in here.”
“Oh, thank you! I would have wandered for ages,” the Ordinate said shortly before he came into view. “The layouts of these houses always confuse me. You are Two-Thirty-Eight, yes?”
“Orphan,” Alarion corrected, too exhausted to even be annoyed.
“Of course, of course. Apologies. I have a uniform jacket here for you.”
“You can set it there, thank you.”
“Of course, of course,” the nervous man bobbed his head, set the uniform down, and turned to leave. Then he seemed to think better of it. “May I ask, is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“You were here to capture the seditionist called Centre. The whole district is buzzing.”
“Alarion…” said Nessa, somewhat cautiously.
He turned his head briefly toward her, more confused than anything. Nessa tended to keep quiet when strangers were around, more of his sanity than for any other reason. For her to call out to him in the middle of a conversation was unusual.
“Did I say something wrong?” The Ordinate asked.
Alarion frowned, torn between two speakers. “What? No. I am sorry. It has been a long night. What were you asking?”
“I was wondering if you were here to capture Centre?”
“Yes.”
“Capture? Not kill?”
“Those were the orders.”
“Alarion!” Nessa insisted, much surer of herself now.
“What?!” he snapped at seemingly empty air.
“Oh. That is a relief,” the Ordinate said. He seemed curious about the outburst but not surprised.
“He is not an Ordinate!”
Alarion looked at the man, then back to Nessa as if she’d grown a second head. The man was obviously an Ordinate. He was the perfect picture of one. Middle-aged, out of shape, and draped in grey.
Easy to forget.
“He called himself I!” she shouted, as if Alarion were the world’s greatest idiot.
the 'Ordinate' said, in fluent Ashadi.