Rohvim #1: Metal and Flesh (38 page)

The man pointed,
Look, even in here you’re still wearing your royal armor that looks as if it came from the king’s treasury itself!

Aeden paced towards the man, watching in the living world that the hand drawn over his face, ripping with deadly energy across his flesh.
This?
He looked down and saw Betha’s father’s armor still strapped to him,
This is no royal armor, well, not in the strictest sense of the word. No, it was a gift from a common merchant. And me?
He paused,
I’ve been a slave to the nobility my entire life. But here you are, gloating of murdering countless innocents? I think it is time we ended this.

The lieutenant shrugged.
Not a noble? Very well. You die all the same, for you stand with them, and they do not fit in the new world that will come.
Instantly the man transformed into a being of flame and iron. He flew at Aeden, shooting a jet of fire square at his head, and the boy leaped high into the air just in time. Higher and higher he flew, willing himself lighter than air. He looked down and saw a jet of flame rushing up to him. Sprouting eagle wings he shot away, his feet blasted off in the forceful flame. He transformed into a being of water, liquid virtually sprouting out of him. He darted down towards the flaming man, shooting a jet of clear fluid that collided with another jet of flame. The two opposing substances collided, and an explosion of steam bowled the man over and the shockwave knocked Aeden out of the sky.

He looked at the scene in the chamber, and saw the lightning from the lieutenant’s hand raking still across his own face, now having traversed several inches of skin. In the mind, falling, he transformed into the green dragon he had assumed while dueling Rupert. He breathed the sticky liquid out of his mouth, and the fluid enveloped the man, nearly freezing him motionless. He disappeared, and reappeared right behind Aeden as a massive, fiery dragon, which tore at him with claws and teeth as they collided.

Aeden, remembering the words of Rupert, transformed into a small flee. He fell, slowly, and saw the great dragon snapping its head around in a vain effort to find him. Out of danger, and still thinking of his dead friend, he assumed the form of a hawk. He darted up, willing his avian body to fly ever faster, and slammed into the dragon, splitting it up the middle. It shrieked, reformed itself, and flew towards the small hawk, breathing a jet a fire. Aeden wheeled around, and facing the jet head on, plunged into the flame itself towards the beast’s head.

The intensity of the heat shocked him, but he willed his flesh to hold, and to solidify into the strongest steel. He sliced through the flame, and the dragon lifted its head at the last moment, letting Aeden plunge right into its solid neck, now decidedly harder. Their wills contested, the lieutenant deciding his neck was impenetrable, Aeden deciding his wings and beak could slice through any impenetrable defense the man could put up.

Aeden thought of Betha. He decided to win, and in that moment, he had knowledge of it.

 He cut through the neck. The dragon screamed in disbelief. The head fell, regrowing its body as it tumbled through the air. Aeden shot down towards it, aiming for the head for a third time, and the dragon’s tail whipped up.
Think small,
he reminded himself of Rupert’s words, and once again assumed the form of a flea, the tail whizzing past him, catching him in its wake. He directed his fall with his mind and landed on the dragon’s head. It snapped to and fro, searching for him again, while Aeden crawled into the beast’s ear. He sprouted a pair of vicious claws, and plunged inward to the brain. The dragon, realizing where Aeden was, quickly began transforming to something else, anything else, but too late. Aeden willed himself into hawk again, this time gigantic, as large as the dragon itself, whose head split to permit the bird’s instant growth.

The dragon disappeared. The lightning from the hand stopped. He dropped out of the mind, and the world sprang into action again. The man’s hand fell limp and Aeden, still flying through the air, crashed into the unconscious body and knocked it to the ground, the two lying in a tangled heap. Frightful pain ravaged his head, and he stood with hands covering his face. The two women rushed over to him, arms extended to catch him as he fell again.

At that moment, the others sprang out of the stairwell and rushed over, crowding around him and the fallen lieutenant. Betha cried out, “Aeden!” Frederick eyes grew wide as he looked at his friend. Still reeling in pain, he felt his cheek. The lieutenant’s lightning had burned its way clear to his metal skull. A small amount of blood oozed from the wound, which was mostly cauterized by the searing heat. Several jagged, black lines ran down the length of the right side of his face.

In shock, he looked around. Seeing the master healer, he blurted out, “This man is not a drone. He’s incredibly powerful. Can you restrain him?”

The master healer bent low and touched the man’s head. A moment later he looked up. “He is secured. This does not last long against a rohva who knows himself, maybe a few hours, unless I were to make a more thorough copy of myself, but we do not have time. Before he wakes, we must find a more … permanent solution. Leave him for now.”

The reunited company, pausing for a moment to wake Arturo and Stuart from their naps, continued onward. Master Arturo, once awake and filled in on the lieutenant’s defeat at Aeden’s hands, asked the master healer, “And? What was downstairs?”

The master healer looked gravely at him. “Horrors, and nightmares. Shiavo is changing the source instructions of captives. There are roomfuls of … damaged … people down there. Mostly from Elbeth, it seems.”

Aeden looked at the master healer expectantly. “Master, you didn’t happen to find …”

The man, in pity said, “I’m sorry, Aeden. She was not there.”

“Very well. I knew it was a hope against hope.”

“We did find Lady Markham, of Elbeth. You had mentioned Lady Whitehall asked about her. She is not well,” said the master healer.

Aeden stood tight-lipped. Finally he managed to say, “Let’s find this Lord Shiavo.”

 “We have not opened any of these doors,” said Diana. They looked around, and saw a set of double doors leading east. They approached, hearing soft sounds from the other side, and opened the door. A man sat with his back to them, bent low over the form of a person strapped to a table.

His head rose, still facing away from them. “I’ve been expecting you …”, and with that, light flashed through the room, and Aeden saw his companions fall to the floor.

Chapter Twenty-two

“Are you writing this all down, my daughters? I am old, and I am wise, though those two don’t always follow one another. But you shall write all, as if it were prophecy from Tilda herself, for I fear the day when the one in opposition to the Creator arises, and shall suckle the nations with nectar, opening their eyes and changing all, to the destruction and sadness of many…” –Wisdom of Rutha, 4:21

Aeden held his head, feeling slightly dizzy, but it quickly passed. The man continued his work without even turning around. Aeden took a step forward.

The man sprang out of his chair and wheeled around, eyes wide in surprise. “You’re … up!” Aeden looked at him, instantly recognizing him as the man inside the minds of all the drone soldiers he had met thus far. 

“Surprised?” Aeden took another step.

The man stuttered a bit, “Well, yes. I sent a shockwave that should have disabled every rohva in this building. And yet here you stand. Interesting.”

Aeden stepped forward again. “Lord Shiavo, I presume.” Another step. “You killed my sister. You killed my father. You killed hundreds of good people of the fair city of Elbeth.”

The man composed himself, and replied, “I did. Unfortunately, I was unable to snuff out all of the nobility of that city, as evidenced by your presence here. No matter. I shall soon remedy that.”

Aeden stepped again, nearly closing the gap between the two men. “I’ve looked forward to this day for three months now. I’ve dreamed of the revenge I would have on you, making you feel what I have felt and my mother has felt.”

A flash of disappointment covered Shiavo’s face. “I missed another one, did I? I’m getting sloppy. Oh well. You’ll die now.” The warlord shot his arms forward, lightning arcing from his fingertips, which appeared blackened to the steel bone. Aeden charged as well, hands extended, lightning springing from his own fingertips, burning his flesh. The energy from the warlord ripped across Aeden’s body, and he prepared to scream as before, yet felt nothing but a tingling sensation. He reached for the man’s neck, shooting energy out of his hands. The lightning ripped across the warlord’s neck, but similarly caused no apparent damage.

The man knocked Aeden’s hands away and plunged his sharpened metal fingertips into the flesh of Aeden’s abdomen. He gasped as the warlord lifted him up into the air by the metal claws dug deep into his midsection. Energy coursed through his body, which Aeden felt as a peaceful ripple, though the punctures in his stomach burned. The warlord threw him across the room and he crashed down onto another table, tumbled off onto the floor, landing near Frederick. He reached behind him and grabbed the other sword, the one Betha’s father had given him with the armor—balanced, graceful, hilt of the finest metal and leather, deadly sharp—and leapt up, stomach and fingers burning in pain, his armor singed and smoking. The warlord grabbed his sword which lay on the table and met the young man’s charge.

Blades flashed and sparkled, casting jittery shadows throughout the room as the two men dueled, shocking and slashing and kicking and punching at one another, a tangle of arms and flesh and metal and blood and hair. A parry by the warlord and Aeden’s sword flew to one side as the warlord crashed his down onto Aeden’s shoulder. It glanced off but left a partially melted shoulder guard from the energy that spewed out of the blade. The boy answered the blow with skill of his own, won by long hours practicing with Priam. They dueled like two masters, their rohva skills apparently, inexplicably, of no use on the other. Within a minute, however, it became apparent that Aeden was the more skilled with a blade. He grew more confident of his impending victory, riding high, flashing his sword around with a flourish. Unexpectedly, the warlord knocked his sword aside again, and the blackened sharpened metal fist found his face, bloodying it, and as Aeden brought his hand up to staunch the flow the warlord’s foot kicked and swept Aeden’s out from under him. He landed flat on his back, and the warlord, still feet away with his sword, lifted it vertically over Aeden’s chest, preparing for a killing blow.

Betha, disturbed by the clang of metal on metal, and the yells and taunts of the two duelists, groggily opened an eye. She saw Aeden fall to his back, just a few yards away, the warlord standing triumphantly over him. She panicked, and dragging herself to her knees she called forth previously unknown stores of energy, directing it at the space between the two men. The sword jabbed down, and, inches from Aeden’s chest, a sparkling barrier flashed into existence, freezing the sword as if it hit brick. The warlord cried out in pain, releasing his sword, Betha fell backward in exhaustion and the shimmering curtain disappeared, and Aeden, still winded from his fall, thrust the sword of the shopkeeper of Ramath up, plunging it straight into the screaming warlord’s abdomen.

The warlord jerked, gurgled a bit, and collapsed to the floor. Aeden, chest heaving, stomach in searing pain, blood flowing from wounds, looked down at the man, who also heaved and spit blood. Aeden kneeled down by the man’s head, and calmly said, “Your reign of terror is at an end, my lord.”

He grabbed the warlord violently by the hair and raised his sword to slice the head off. As his hand closed around the locks and touched the scalp, he felt glimmers of feeling pulse into him. Fear. Longing. Sadness. He pressed the sword firmly to the man’s neck, preparing to cut, a thin line of blood appearing where the steel met flesh. His hand hovered, quivering, over the warlord’s face. The whispers of emotion called to him. He looked down at the man’s face, now coughing up blood, a look of pure hatred painted on it. And yet flowed still: desire for mercy, for peace, for release. Aeden’s heart swelled, and he felt pity for the dying man below him. Seeing the blood flow freely from the warlord’s abdomen, he dropped his sword and placed his hand on the man’s head, both now gently covering it, and entered. 

He wheeled around, searching for the warlord, but he was nowhere to be found. “Who are you?” a voice asked. He turned, and, standing next to the wall, stood a man Aeden did not recognize. He was older, tall, gaunt, and looked at Aeden with deep, heavyset eyes. Aeden stared at him, not understanding.

“Who am I? Who are you? Where is Shiavo?” 

The gaunt man looked at him grimly and replied, “Shiavo is my slave.”

Aeden repeated, “Who are you?”

The man replied, “I asked you first. But very well. My name is Yoruth. And we are now at an end. As you can see, I am but a copy of my true self—A powerful, nearly complete copy, yes, but a copy nonetheless. I am no match for you here. I will leave now. You have won this round. But there are many rounds to go yet, and I assure you,” he paused, tilting his head toward Aeden, looking up at him, “I will prevail. It is prophesied to be so.”