Kastori Devastations (The Kastori Chronicles Book 2) (5 page)

Now she’s a woman. And she doesn’t need to be held.

“Cyrus,” Celeste said, and her expression revealed that she had eavesdropped on his thoughts. “You know I’m always your little sister, right?”

“I know,” Cyrus said. “But it’s not the same. It’s like, different. I used to always be your protector, your guardian. Now, I don’t know what role I play.”

“Cyrus, you’re my brother. And that’s all I need and want you to be because that’s more than I’ll ever need. You don’t have to watch over me. You don’t have to subvert to me. I’m not a damsel in distress, but I’m not Crystil, either.”

“War-time Crystil.”

Celeste thought about it and quickly nodded in agreement.

“Point is, big brother, I’m a grown woman, and you’re a grown man. We have our strengths. You’d kick my butt in a sword duel in no time. I’d toy with you in a magic battle. And we have our weaknesses. We’re equals, differed only by five years, and not by some weird status. Cool?”

Cyrus sighed for exaggerated effect, and put his arm around his sister.

“You’re always my little sister,” Cyrus said, and both laughed. “But I totally get it. There’s no one individual to protect. We both got each other’s back.”

“Precisely,” Celeste said. “And besides, there’s not really anyone to protect against right now.”

Cyrus laughed and said, “True, true,” but he couldn’t quite believe it. In developing interest in Crystil, he’d obtained some of her soldier’s paranoia and knew there would come a day when Typhos would come.

He knew when he looked at his sister, she felt the same way. “Right now” was far more literal than either of them wished.

They could laugh, tease, and teach, but Cyrus always felt they would need to incorporate fighting and protection sooner rather than later.

7

Crystil stood that afternoon in the same spot that she had the prior evening—in the ship, alone, trying to find her way without the context of battle. Now, however, she grew tired of the internal battle and sought an outlet which would provide her some distraction until Cyrus and Celeste returned from their Kastori-aided hunt.

She went to the cockpit—which now doubled as a makeshift storage room—and grabbed two swords, both long, thin blades with hilts that displayed the crest of the Orthranian Empire, the globe of Monda, and featured two handles sticking out from the sides to catch blades sliding down the steel. She placed one just outside the entrance to
Omega One
in case either Cyrus or Celeste wished to join her. She grabbed the other, walked out about ten feet, and began warming up with some basic sword attacks.

Lunge. Cross-slice. Parry. Jab. She struck slowly at first, dancing at half-speed, to get used to the weight of the sword, the feel of it moving through the air, and the footwork necessary to fight effectively with a blade. Slowly, she picked up speed, like an opera starting out with a single singer and cascading into an entire chorus. Soon, her warm-up resembled the infernos the Kastori produced, as she moved so quickly she could provide an instantaneous death by a thousand cuts.

She sheathed her sword, with a light sweat on her forehead and her muscles loose. She closed her eyes and told herself to fight the first person she thought of.

Dyson.

Of course.

Her husband, and the one who taught her how to fight with a sword. Dyson always had the upper hand in strength and used that to his advantage—which forced Crystil to master the art of the quick jab, the step-back, the sidestep and instantaneous reaction. She unsheathed her sword and looked out onto a blank space of land. She focused closely until she could see Dyson, hear his voice, smell his sweat and develop the edge she always had when sparring with her former husband.

“He” approached and came down hard with a two-handed chop. She deflected and pushed off. Dyson came back at her with long windups that resulted in powerful attacks, and she parried them all, knowing even all this time later his tendencies and his favorites, like the way he always cut right to left, but rarely left to right, and how he did a good job of keeping his balance on defense but rarely on the second swing on offense.

She went into such a zone, imagining Dyson in front of her, that though she used her terrain against her opponent, she did not hear Celeste or Cyrus call her name from the edge of the forest.

“Hit me,”
she “heard” Dyson say, but she knew that was his taunt—an invitation to a trap. Dyson’s counter was too good—she had to goad him into attacking by not going on the offensive. She could hit him only after his first attack.

Sure enough, she saw Dyson approach and come in with a wild swing which missed, leaving his shoulder vulnerable. In one quick motion, she struck the sword out of his hand and brought her blade to his throat.

“How’s this for hitting you?” she said.

The illusion disappeared, and she sheathed her sword, wiping the sweat from her brow. A smile formed as she felt accomplished and refreshed, even if the Orthrans and Kastori stared at her like she had lost her mind.
Which is probably the case… except, ironically, when I’m doing this. This is when I feel most at peace, and most at home. No magic. No tents. No Kastori or Typhos or planet-hopping. Just me, an opponent, our immediate surroundings, and our weapons.

Would be nice to feel this way when someone isn’t going to die, though.

She immediately decided she wanted a second round, and decided to fight the next person who came to mind.

Dyson. Cyrus. Ma—

Well, OK. This seems amusing.

She unsheathed her sword and imagined Cyrus coming over, a smirk on his face, holding the sword loosely and generally making for a poor foe.

“Hey, I’m Cyrus Orthran, I once fought fifty bad guys at once and killed them all in under a minute. What you got?”

“I got me,” Crystil said confidently to herself.

Cyrus charged with his sword held high, and Crystil stepped to the side, letting the figure go by. She held her sword out, and the imaginary Cyrus walked into it.
I need to think of some tougher bad guys.

“Hey, don’t think that just cuz I’m bleeding it means I’m dead,”
Cyrus said.
“I’m your imagination. You can’t let me go.”

OK, woah, focus, Crystil, this would never happen in real life.

“C’mon, Crystil, why are you playing so coy?”

“Enough!” she said, and she recaptured her sense of space as she saw the real Cyrus and Celeste approaching. She sheathed her sword slowly, knowing the two of them were watching, still not entirely unable to let go of a need for an aura. The slow, dramatic finish made Cyrus nod with his eyes narrowed, clearly impressed.

“Hey, we’ve got some really good ursus waiting for us at the outpost,” she said. “Erda brought it back.”

“Two days in a row? We’re going soft,” Crystil said, but with a smile that softened her comment. “How did hunting go?”

“Without a hitch!” Cyrus said loudly, to which Crystil tilted her head with a smirk.

“I take it that means you screwed up badly and needed magical assistance?”

Celeste laughed so hard even Crystil started laughing without knowing what was going on. Cyrus blushed and became genuinely angry, which made it even funnier to Crystil.

“I wish we had a way to record it, Crystil. The ursus, chasing him, his face… oh, he went from poking the ursus to thinking the ursus was going to poke him! Thankfully Erda was there.”

“Yeah,” Cyrus said, and Crystil loved it, applauding as she laughed.
I would give so much for a replay of that. Maybe I’ll fight him for real and make him get that look.

“Hey, if it makes you feel better, been there, done that,” Crystil said. “Well, with the fear. Not with poking the ursus. You deserve all of the grief from everyone on this planet for that.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes and snorted.

“Good training?” he asked, clearly eager to change the subject.

Crystil’s eyes went wide, as she decided to challenge the man. And she knew just how to do so.

“Yeah. I imagined fighting you, and you lost within ten seconds. Think you can do better than that?” she said as she pulled her sword back out.

8

“Better than that?” Cyrus said loudly, his voice rising in sardonic disbelief.

He looked down at her sword, which her gaze followed. She admired the perfectly sharpened blade, bloodless—for now—and able to cut through anything that might fight back. She looked up and saw Cyrus shaking his head sadly as if he couldn’t believe the sight of the sword.

“See, you have quite the sword, but there’s a problem. You can’t deflect or dodge bullets. Your sword would lose to my gun before you could raise it.”

“OK,” Crystil said, taking two steps back as if daring Cyrus to fire. “Show me your gun and I’ll drop the sword and declare you the winner.”

Cyrus panicked, then quickly dispelled his expression with the drawing of an imaginary gun. Crystil laughed and pretended to block his bullets.

“You can’t do that!” Cyrus said.

“Why not?”

“Because… argh, that’s not real!”

“And your gun lighter than air and with no kickback is?”

“You… you…”

Cyrus stammered as Celeste laughed at the whole scene.

“Thank goodness this wasn’t your strategy for Calypsius,” Celeste said to both parties.

“It was our emergency plan,” Crystil quipped, a surprising remark even to herself. “In case Cyrus decided to talk to skulls again.”

“Crystil,” Celeste said with a warm but warning smile, and Crystil ended it there.

Cyrus, having stammered himself out, dropped his imaginary gun and folded his arms.

“In all seriousness, Cyrus, you should continue learning sword fighting. I know we haven’t used our guns since Calypsius, but the reality is we will run out of ammo someday. But we can always use blades. Blades will make you a better warrior, more aware of what’s around you and your opponent.”

Cyrus nodded, but his eyes didn’t follow his gesture, so Crystil waited for him to respond verbally.

“It all makes sense, I’m in agreement. But it’s like… on the one hand, I know Typhos might come back.”

“Will,” Crystil said.

“OK, will come back. But if I keep fighting seriously, as if a great war might come tomorrow… I’ll never relax. Get to enjoy time with Celeste. With you.”

Crystil felt her stomach knot when he said that, and it didn’t help his eyes had intensely locked on hers.

“With the Kastori. Enjoy this planet. If I can’t go back to Monda, then I need to at least make Anatolus Monda-like.”

“OK,” Crystil said, and she looked over at Celeste, who had started to speak but always deferred to the commander. “Let’s face some realities. We are useless when Typhos comes back since we don’t have magic. And we don’t have
Omega One.
We have guns and the element of surprise, but even that is rendered useless by their sensing skills.”

“The ones with red magic,” Celeste reminded her.

“Right. But with that all said, there’s a difference between being useless and being a hindrance. We may not be able to fight the war the way the Kastori would. But we can make sure we’re not making it more difficult for them. We can become more aware of our surroundings and help them learn sword fighting.”

Cyrus shrugged.
It’s not that he doesn’t like training. He just doesn’t like training hard. He sees it more as a game than as a battle.

Speak his language. Lure him into the trap of thinking it’s a game, then slowly force him to fight a battle.

“Here, you know what, you’re right,” Crystil said as she motioned for the other two siblings to follow her to the entrance of the ship, where she grabbed the second sword. “Let’s compromise. We train, but we go slow. As long as you pay attention. Deal?”

“Deal,” Cyrus said, the cocky swagger back and the arrogant smile back on his face.

She tossed the sword to him, and he caught the sheath with both hands. He pulled out the sword, dropping the sheath to the ground, and admired it. It was a carbon copy of the one Crystil held, made in one of the manufacturing plants far away from Capitol City.

The only difference was the wielder, and in that department, Crystil had a significant advantage.
I wouldn’t even call it an advantage. It’s so overwhelming. I have skills. Poor guy doesn’t.

This will be fun. Teach him when he’s pinned.

“Feels good every time I hold it,” Cyrus said as he swung it awkwardly and loosely in the air.

The soldier in Crystil cringed and wanted to look away at the terrible technique the man used when holding the sword. She had to remind herself he’d only held a sword a few times in his life, and never in battle.

He sniffed the air and stopped looping the sword in front of him.

“They’re cooking our food,” Cyrus said.
Our?
“Crystil…”

“Uh uh,” she said, her playful side winning out. “You come and talk trash to me about how your sword can defeat my gun, you’re not walking away from this. But I’ll make a deal with you—beat me in practice and you can leave immediately.”