Cyphira Quinn. Solday, Aquarius 17th, 7:03 AM. 2354 AA. New Amsterdam (CIC Headquarters).
“Our target is a newly incarnated Native Erician goddess named Ashomi,” Commander Morgan began. “She is patron to the Hare cult. They are indigenous to the northern Rockies, sharing some traditions with both the Cheyenne and Sioux. Most Native Erician deities are a pastiche of many different traditions shared among the tribes, but the worship of Ashomi is wholly unique to the Hare.”
“What is her domain?” Forsythe asked.
Morgan turned her cold smile to Forsythe.
“To the Hare, she is seen as a messianic figure representing freedom. More specifically, liberation. According to the precepts of their faith, the birth of Ashomi will usher in an era of unrivaled prosperity, ultimately uniting all of Ericia’s Tribes, who will then expel foreign influence from their lands.”
Howell snickered.
“Bedtime story bullshit. We honestly think this is a credible threat?”
“We cannot allow it to become one,” Morgan said, calm but firm. “In pre-history, gods were the entities who freed humanity from the yoke of dragons. Today, deific incarnation is vanishingly rare. The presence of a literal god tends to change things.”
And the Amagium’s never really been fond of that.
“Once she becomes known to the broader world, she will be effectively immortal. Killing her would later make her a martyr. Right now, the only people who are aware of her existence live in a commune in the Owl Creek Mountains, in the north reaches of Wind River state.”
“How did we find out about her?” Cyphira asked.
“Our scrying network detected an enormous spike in egregoric energy in the region that is consistent with readings from various incarnations in the past. Paired with portents found in the writings of the Hare religion, it is conclusive evidence.”
“And what if she is gone by the time we get there?” Forsythe asked mildly.
“We have their compound under constant satellite surveillance, both visual and magical. Energy readings have remained consistent since her inception, last night. But time is the of the essence. We gather here at eight tonight for a ten o’clock departure.”
Morgan gestured to a wall-sized screen which displayed a bird’s eye view of a commune nestled at the foot of a small mountain range. It didn’t look like much. A couple trailers, a farmhouse, stables, fields, and three other buildings of indistinct purpose. The only fortifications were four fire watch towers at the corner of a wooden perimeter fence around the compound.
“Normally, we would never allow juniors on such an assignment. But committing deicide—even when the god in question is young—is tricky business. So we have planned three redundant methods for dispatching her.”
Morgan gestured at Judge Thunder Stag.
“Our first option is Judge Rolend Thunder Stag, on loan to the CIC from Asfalis Conflict Mediation. If any human has enough raw urdic power required to kill a divine on the material plane, it’s him.”
Stag took no notice of the compliment. He wore a bored smirk, as if the entire world was beneath him. Morgan turned her attention to the nervous-looking junior agent:
“We also have Junior Agent Lucima Shonoa. Ms. Shonoa is what the Hare Tribe refers to as ‘star-touched.’ She was born on a solar eclipse, which afforded her wyrd unique metaphysical properties that we believe will render her magic particularly effective against Ashomi.
“Our final contingency is Junior Agent Cyphira Quinn, an akrasiac, and the daughter of Mab of the Winter Court. In reality, Cyphira will be on even footing with everyone else. But if she can manage to bring Ashomi into the Faed, the unique environment should strip the goddess of much of her protections and abilities.”
“What of Ashomi’s followers?” the scarred grandmother asked delicately.
Morgan, paused then bowed her head. Cyphira braced herself.
“Due to the nature of deific belief, they must be wiped out.”
Cyphira wanted to shit out her heart.The table was silent for a beat. This is the only token of grief these people will get. No way around this one. It’s a direct order. Out of my hands.
She tried to think of an objection. Some way to save the civilians. But their crime is the knowledge in their heads and the belief in their hearts. No way to change that. Unless…
“What if we stitched their memories?” Cyphira asked.
Morgan shook her head.
“We have to be sure. The Hare will not give up their goddess’ life willingly, and even if we were able to take prisoners, the chance of them polluting the public subconscious is too grave. It is also essential that blame does not lie with the Amagium. It’s a grim fact, but we cannot afford the risk.”
“So what’s the plan?” Thunder Stag asked. “We storm in with ALTAR units?”
Morgan gave Thunder Stag an exasperated smile.
“All Terrain Armor Units are hardly inconspicuous, Your Honor. We would have to explain our intentions at the Border of the Tribes.”
Thunder Stag gave her an easy shrug and gestured something to the effect of “can’t blame me for asking.” Cyphira felt sickened. We’ve just been told we have to slaughter an entire community of people, and he’s disappointed that we don’t get to do it with high tech toys.
“Oak’s venture will be parachuting into the woods on the slope of the mountain. They will descend from the slope and take the compound from the rear with the priority of preventing any means of escape. Stag and Forsythe’s Ventures will be deployed to the south and lead a frontal assault as a diversion.
Morgan gestured at the pertinent parts of the compound, highlighted the drop points on the topographical map of the region.
“That’s a big perimeter to cover,” Kuro said. “It will be impossible to keep an eye out for runners when we’re fighting for our lives.”
“As I said, the compound is under surveillance. If it looks like the Hare are preparing to leave, we have a team of ritualists on standby to create a barrier that will seal them within the boundaries of their walls and cut their communications. This is hardly ideal, as it will tip our hand. With any luck, we won’t have to start the ritual until your deployment.”
The amagia nodded and fell quiet.
“I’ve prepared a dossier for each of you with more precise information about your specific role. Spend the day reviewing them and making any other preparations you might need. Contact me immediately if you have any questions. Once you’ve received your packet, you are dismissed.”
Morgan called everyone up in a rough order of seniority and handed them black binders that were enchanted to be readable only by their intended recipient. The operatives filed out of the room one by one, until only the junior agents were left. Morgan called the shaken-looking girl, Shonoa, and handed her the documents, then placed a hand on her shoulder and offered some words of encouragement. The girl bobbed her head and chuckled.
Finally, it was Cyphira’s turn, but Morgan pointedly waited until Shonoa scurried out of the room before calling her up. Great. She wants to have a private talk. Cyphira headed it off by jerking a thumb over her shoulder and asked:
“You sure about her? She looks baby-shit green.”
“We make do with what we have Agent Quinn,” Morgan replied and extended the binder to Cyphira. As she reached for the packet though, Morgan’s chilly wyrd gripped her own. “And we do what we must.”
Cyphira met the woman’s steely gaze and held it for several seconds. You don’t last long in this business by being meek. Especially when somebody is questioning your judgment. Morgan’s expression came as close to softening as it ever did. She said:
“I know you must find this assignment distasteful. We all do. But we cannot afford any special allowances. What happened with Visser cannot happen here, is that clear?”
But at the end of the day, soldiers follow orders. And I am a soldier.
“Sir,” Cyphira affirmed.
— Solday, Aquarius 17th, 6:36 PM. Cyphira’s Apartment —
Cyphira opened the door to her apartment when Forsythe knocked. She knew it was him by the force and cadence. She didn’t even bother opening the door herself, just yanked it open with sorcery, and continued reviewing her dossier. She had spent the last twelve hours memorizing it, but now she was going back through the mission point by point, making notes on what to do in case—or rather when—things went sideways.
“You here to lecture me too?” she asked.
Forsythe gave her a questioning look. Cyphira shook her head.
“Morgan reminded me that this time we have to kill every last motherfucker in the room, and that any similar ‘mishaps’ like the one with Visser will mean my head. Maybe literally.”
“She’s wrong, Cyphira.”
Cyphira didn’t look up from her notes.
“I mean, she’s a bitch, but she’s not wrong.”
Cyphira waited for his answer, but it never came. When she turned to look at Forsythe, his mouth hung open and he had a distant look in his eyes. Cyphira felt a chill. He was never at a loss for words. Ever. It was an alien experience, like watching a statue spit.
“This is wrong, Cyphira,” he said at last.
She closed her dossier and stared at him, uncomprehending. He hesitated again then said:
“We should not kill Ashomi.”
Cyphira narrowed her eyes. Is this some kind of fucked-up test? A joke at my expense? If it was, Forsythe’s face gave no indication of humor. He continued:
“You were right when I said that I hated myself. After you saved the girl, I knew I would do differently. That’s the part of myself I hate.” He shook his head. “And I will hate myself more for this.”
“Are you testing me?” she asked.
Forsythe shook his head, almost desperately.
“I’m done testing you. Done teaching you. Done indoctrinating.”
Cyphira sneered. This had to be some sort of fucked-up joke, because the alternative was incomprehensible.
“Strange time to suffer a crisis of conscience. You despise gods.”
“Most gods give us good cause for it. The CIC has framed the Hare as a cult. A compound of deranged gun-nuts who have raised some eldritch horror. But I took it upon myself to conduct some research beyond my dossier. The Hare is a genuine tribe. Very old and very small, but a distinct Erician people nonetheless. And from everything that I have read, Ashomi is goodness personified. Even the passages that describe her ‘expelling’ foreign influence are peaceful in nature.”
Cyphira laughed scornfully.
“Howell was right. It’s a goddamned bedtime story. You can’t possibly believe—”
“I do,” Forsythe said. “The United Tribes are hurting, Cyphira. Ashomi leads them to new caches of natural wealth. Game and growth resurge. Scientific and magic luminaries are born. Their scriptures have a phrase for it. ‘The Fifty Years of Song.’ Can you imagine how much good five decades of fortune would do the Tribes?”
Cyphira’s jaw went slack. What the hell is this? She stood up from her coffee table, raised her hands to her head and started pacing. After a minute, she scoffed and shook her head, then wheeled on him:
“I’m sorry, did you just wake up and forget who the fuck you are?”
“No,” Forsythe said. “It took seven years, but you’ve reminded me. I am a man who swore to live life on his own terms. Instead I became a monster enslaved to something even worse. And I’m done. I won’t be party to this.”
Cyphira shook her head and gestured “the hell you won’t.”
“We don’t have a choice. We don’t get to just walk away, or pass on an assignment. Especially not a three-zero.”
“I know. And after this, there will be another atrocity. And another. And another ad infinitum. How many crimes can we commit in the name of the greater good until we have to admit the core of our cause is rotten? We are the villains, Cyphira.”
“So… what? You’re gonna wander the fucking Earth? Throw your entire life away? Side with the Unbranded?”
Forsythe had no answer. Cyphira insisted: “If you are that dead set against this, at least try to retire or something!”
He gave her a pitying smile, which pissed her off even more.
“There is no retirement in the CIC. We fight until we are crippled, dead, or promoted high enough to send others to the same fate.”
“Then… ask for a promotion! Be the change you want to see in our wicked little world!”
“I considered it. I know Morgan, though. She’ll demand I complete this mission to demonstrate my loyalty before she grants me any kind of concession.”
Cyphira realized she was having trouble breathing. This is the worst-case scenario I never saw coming. I never imagined he was capable of turning. And so quickly.
“Look. At least try to negotiate with Morgan! Convince her to call off the mission, or adjust the parameters. I’ll back you up. I don’t want to murder people either, but please! Just… don’t do this, Forsythe.”
Forsythe held her gaze, and she knew what he was going to say next before he said it.
“You can come with me. With your gift, our odds will be much better. As you know, a trained akrasiac is almost impossible to pin down. We make a good team, Cyphira. But we’re playing for the wrong side.”
No. I am not hearing this.
“‘Our odds?’ The entire CIC will be out to kill us. If we go AWOL, a burn notice will be out by noon. Hell, you’d better hope they don’t have you bugged already.”
This is impossible. This is asinine. Cyphira held her hands up and shook her head.
“Let’s go to the infirmary, alright? Get you looked at.”
Forsythe smiled sadly.
“I am not compromised. I underwent a voluntary assessment earlier to consider that possibility. It probably raised a red flag, and I don’t intend to give Morgan another. I am not reporting for this mission. If you aren’t coming with me… this is farewell.”
Cyphira couldn’t keep the fear out of her posture. She consciously felt her wyrd, bracing for a punch. He’s seriously going rogue? Forsythe smirked, bowed his head. He pushed himself off the wall, uncrooked Phobos’ handle from around his shoulder, and presented the weapon to Cyphira.
“Here. A parting gift. You can use it to try and kill me if you so desire. It would be a fitting final lesson, and Morgan will want to know whether you tried to stop me.”
What the fuck?
“A fitting final lesson?!” Cyphira said, voice almost screeching. “You are all I have!”
Forsythe flinched at words as if they never even occurred to him. Yes, asshole! This is bigger than just you! My whole life has been defined by people leaving. Either somebody leaves me, or I leave them first. And I’m not going through that again!
“You’re a shit teacher, and a worse boss, and a horrible fucking person, but you are my best friend. You are quite possibly the only person on this planet who actually knows me! And now you’re telling me to kill you like it’s some kind of joke? Fuck you!”
Cyphira shoved Phobos into his chest, pushing him backwards.
“I should kill you!” she added.
He seemed slightly chastened—more alien behavior! God damn it, what has gotten into you!? Cyphira looked away as she started to tear up, fixing her eyes on the skyline through her apartment window. He’s cracked. Jesus Christ, he has literally gone mad. She turned back to face him, seeing that he had regained his composure. The same maddening, ruthless calm he wore by default.
Cyphira earnestly considered trying to restrain him. But I can’t even think of an opening move he won’t see coming. He’s ready for it. I can’t subdue him. On my best day, I might be able to kill him on his worst. But between the dragon heart, his reservoir ribbon, and gods only know what else he has up his sleeves… There is no way I can take him alive. She shook her head again.
“Please. Don’t leave me,” she said, defeated. “I am begging you. We complete the assignment, we bear the weight, and then we talk to Morgan about making some serious changes. At least try talking—”
“The CIC will try to assassinate me the second they know my faith has been shaken. I am as potentially dangerous to them as Ashomi is. And as you can see, they are not willing to hazard any such risks.”
Cyphira’s mind went into overdrive, trying to think of any argument to keep him there. How can I talk him down off this ledge?
“With the team we’ve got, you being there or not won’t make a difference. That goddess is gonna die anyway. So why ruin yourself?”
Why ruin me?
“Because making a stand begins with a taking a meaningful first step. And this is mine. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid. Moreso without your help. But I know what I am asking and I know you have the courage to make the right decision.”
“Damn straight,” Cyphira insisted. “And the right decision is to do the fucking job. I am not going to betray the Amagium. If the Tribes drive us out—if we give the world back to gods and goddesses—”
“The Third Amagium has never lost territory before. If the Tribes successfully secede, it will be the beginning of the end. It will not fall immediately, and not without considerable bloodshed. But I have seen what we’ve done with the world, and I want no further part in it.”
Cyphira swallowed the sudden, violent urge to strike him. He expects me to be impulsive. So be smart. Do something calculating, or clever—But before she could use a glamour, or feint, or even strike, he embraced her, placing his hand on the back of her head.
This is the first time he’s hugged me.
His sorcery hit her like a club. She went limp in his arms, numbed to her fingertips and toes. Her entire body became dead weight. Wet lead. He leaned on her mind with his monstrous wyrd, wringing consciousness from her body. He spoke to her as she drifted to sleep:
“You will see the truth eventually. And once you do, you will find me. Until then, survive. Do what you must. I love you, Cyphira. I love you, and I am sorry.”
— 7:13 PM | New Amsterdam (CIC Headquarters) —
“Did Forsythe give any indication of what he would do as a ‘free agent?’” Morgan asked.
“No, sir,” Cyphira said. “He just reiterated that the Amagium was wrong to kill Ashomi, and was convinced that he would be assassinated if he refused the assignment or voiced dissent.”
Morgan snickered. She seems rather blithe about a super soldier gone rogue.
“And how did you react?” Morgan asked.
“At first, I thought it was some kind of test, or a sick joke. But when it became clear he was serious… he asked me to come with him. And I told him I was loyal to the Amagium. I begged him not to go.”
Morgan nodded.
“Regrettably that means we shall be playing at a handicap. There’s no time to brief a replacement.”
Great. This gets better and better.
“Why didn’t you go with him?” Morgan asked, as if it were a perfectly normal inquiry.
“I am loyal to the Amagium, sir. And I didn’t feel like throwing my life away.”
Cyphira was so offended that she didn’t even consider the question in earnest until later. She couldn’t keep the outrage out of her voice, and she must have seemed genuinely imposing, because Morgan actually looked taken aback. It was the first time Cyphira had seen her expression surprised or apologetic.
“I do not mean to question your allegiance. Given the nature of our current task… I can understand how tempting his offer must have been. We don’t take loyalty for granted, Cyphira. We are in your debt, and I shall see it paid meaningfully.”
Bullshit. How? You know I don’t have a choice. How could you possibly make this up to me? Then her mouth started talking before her brain could keep up:
“I don’t want genocide on my resume,” Cyphira said.
Morgan peered at her for a few seconds, then bid her continue:
“You want a bad guy dead—I’m your girl. But after this? I am done hurting innocent people. And don’t get cute with me about the nature of innocence. You know these people don’t deserve to die.”
Morgan inclined her head and said:
“I wouldn’t ask this of you—of anyone—if there were any other way. And if you yourself didn’t possess the potential to kill a god—”
Cyphira waved her away. She didn’t want to hear it.
“You will always have a ‘reasonable justification.’ That’s the convenient thing about working for the greater good. But after this? I’m done wiping out bloodlines. Done killing kids and noncombatants. Try to use me like this again and, I’m gonna take Forsythe up on his offer.”
It was a flicker. Not even there for a quarter second. But the left corner of Morgan’s mouth twitched in a smile. Then she took a deep breath and nodded, extending her hand to Cyphira. Cyphira stared at her hand for a second before taking it. They shook solemnly, with Morgan meeting her eyes directly.
Fuck. She’s lying.
I lost.
Cyphira had learned to weaponize her inability to lie. And that involved telling when other people were lying—recognizing their tells and why they would bother. If she was leveling with me, she wouldn’t agree so quickly. She’d lay out conditions.
Forsythe was right about one thing. This will never end.
— Lunday, Aquarius 18th. 12:03 AM. United Tribes of Ericia. Wind River (Owl Creek Mountains) —
Cyphira sat in the cabin of the silenced plane, wondering if it was still called a cabin if there weren’t seats. Like, isn’t this basically the hold as well? She knew the pointless, idle questions were her way of trying to calm herself down. While she had basic parachute training, she had never done a dive into a live combat theater before. But compared to Forsythe’s defection, this is dry toast.
The intercom crackled to life:
“Stand back from the hatch. We’re coming up on deployment point one.”
Shonoa checked her chute for maybe the fortieth time, and started doing breathing exercises.
Has this woman even seen actual combat? Cyphira withheld the urge to stab her in the gut with a witty remark. Mockery won’t help here. If things weren’t life or death—lives plural—deaths plural—sure, I’d let her have it. But I’ve seen too many people die on missions to fuck with somebody who already has nerves.
The sounds of heavy-duty hydraulics groaned as the rear of the plane entered. A howling draft tugged at all of them, and Grandma Claw’s venture walked to the ledge of the plane. Cyphira had learned that the scarred, old Amagia’s name was actually Eleyah Swimming Bird, but Grandma Claw suited her infinitely better. She seemed perfectly calm in the face of the jump. Shonoa still looked like she was ready to die. Kuro, the final member of their venture, gave Cyphira a knuckle-tap before standing up and queueing up behind Grandma Claw.
“Team one, stand by,” the pilot said over the intercom. A five second pause followed by a countdown: “Five… four… three… two… one… deploy.”
For what it was worth, the jumps looked good. Grandma went first. Then Kuro. And finally, Shonoa. They all pitched themselves into twilight.
Thunder Stag scoffed and said:
“That girl looks like she’ll have a heart attack on the way down.”
Cyphira nodded in agreement, and Thunder Stag gave her a smirk. She couldn’t tell if it was meant in comradery or if he had a similarly low opinion of her. The intercom spoke again:
“Team two, stand by.”
Cyphira filed into formation behind the others. Dantem “The Wall” Howell got into position first, looking almost as green as Shonoa. The same countdown started, faster than the interval before the first. “Five…Four…Three…Two…One…Deploy.”
Howell jumped out gracelessly, like he was doing a belly flop. Then Chastain hopped out after him. Cruz did a flip out of the plane. Stag slid into the empty air with a dive. Cyphira waited as per their brief, then dove into the darkness, arms and legs spread to her sides.
The enchantment on her hood reacted to the air’s drag, using it to fuel an enchantment woven into its fabric. If the spell worked right, she would have roughly thirty minutes of night vision by the time she touched down.
The ground rushed to meet her slower than she expected, and she used her airborne time to survey the Hare’s camp. She had prepared herself for sentries. People with guns and binoculars. But only one of the four watchtowers surrounding their compound was manned. An old guy in a fold out chair with a cup of coffee and a magazine, sat atop the southwest tower. If he had any kind of weapon, she couldn’t see it.
These people have no idea what’s coming.
Forsythe’s entreaty burned in her head, as if his words had branded her eardrums.
“This is wrong, Cyphira.”
Cyphira turned back to the ground. You know he’s right. You’re so full of shit. Shoot a mark to save an innocent person, but commit genocide because it’s a direct order. You make this grand gesture to prove your above this, to give yourself the illusion of truth, but when mommy says “I mean it,” you fold like wet money. Bloody money.
She pulled her arms and legs against her body, becoming a human torpedo. As she accelerated, a sick, weak part of her was tempted to just keep falling. To propel herself forward with a surge of sorcery and smear herself into the ground instead of opening her chute. Her earpiece released an audio pop sharp enough to disrupt her death drive:
“Quinn, deploy,” the pilot said casually.
Cyphira tugged the cord, the whole world lost to the rush of wind around her. Her chute popped and yanked her upright. She began to descend more slowly. Howell, Chastain, and Stag were already sprinting toward the perimeter. She and Cruz were still in the air—he’d apparently pulled his chute early. What happened to all that bravado? Not gonna do another flip?
When she touched down and released her harness, she heard Forsythe again:
“With your gift, our odds will be much better. As you know, a trained akrasiac is almost impossible to pin down.” Cyphira grit her teeth. It’s too late now. You’re here. You defect now and, everybody still dies. Do your job. Do your job. Do your fucking—
An explosion of magical flame took out half the front wall. The backdraft was so intense that it knocked Cyphira off course, and she collided with a tree before she could touch down. What the hell was that!? Thunder Stag? Someone inside?
Half the front wall was gone in an instant, consumed by flame and smoke. She saw all four members of her team front lit by the blaze. Apparently, Howell had shielded them from the blow back of Stag’s first contract. If that’s the backlash on a ‘controlled strike’ how has this guy not killed himself yet?
An enormous column of lightning—something far too thick to be called a bolt—took out the watchtower on the southeast corner of the perimeter wall. One second it was there, and then it was stricken from the earth. The crash of thunder that accompanied it pushed Cyphira on her backfoot and knocked Cruz on his ass. The other members of their team, better shielded by Howell, held their ground.
“Jesus Christ, that guy’s a monster,” Cruz laughed.
Cyphira didn’t find it funny. She sprinted up to Howell, Chastain, and Stag. People from the base had started firing back. Cyphira looked to the southwest tower and saw that the guy with the magazine did indeed have a gun. A powerful sniper rifle, in fact.
But guns were to Howell as woodpeckers were to reinforced concrete. Chastain bound the guy before he could take his next shot. Then Stag detonated the tower with a focused vortex of sonic energy, shredding its supports and sending the old sniper plummeting to his doom. Thunder Stag stretched the stream of sound across the remaining section of the front wall, reducing the timber to jagged splinters that showered the inside of the compound.
“I could get used to these eight-anima licenses,” Stag said, eyes glowing with the magical high.
Another explosive crash rocked the plains, though this time it came from behind the amagia, close to where they had touched down. Chastain and Cyphira turned to see some sort of feathered creature, wreathed in electricity, crouching on the ground. Its wings erupted outward as it unleashed a thunderous cry so intense it pushed Cyphira backwards.
It had avian features—a beaked head, legs ending in talons, and four enormous pairs of wings sprouting from its back. But its torso was that of a giant human—at least 8 feet tall—with a pair of muscular arms. Multiple wings. Is that a fucking dragon?
Cyphira knew dragons were real. They were unfathomably powerful, and they were some of the few magical entities in the world that were not beholden to the Amagium’s yoke. Contrary to their most common depictions, winged, serpentine forms were merely one of a multitude of ways they could choose to manifest themselves on the material plane. The CIC suspected that the last surviving members of their species walked among humans in secret, skirting extinction.
Gods are the natural predators of dragons. But if they found a common enemy in the Amagium…
Thunder Stag rotated his right shoulder as he stepped forward and said:
“You are an Arapaho thunderbird, unless I am mistaken. It’s an honor.”
The creatures form compressed smoothly. It’s wings, talons, and beak receded until a tall, but naturally-sized native Erician stood before them.
“The only honor you shall receive is death, Thunder Stag. Your namesake shames my domain. Your actions shame humanity,” the bird said in a bass voice that penetrated Cyphira’s bones. “You are a traitor to your people. A tyrant who wields murderous power for your own amusement.”
Thunder Stag grinned. He turned to Chastain and said:
“Hold off the small fries. I’ll deal with the parrot.”
Small fries? Cyphira whirled around, facing the gate. She saw men and women with guns rushing toward the ruined wall from the interior of the compound. Then, from the fires themselves, a legion of miniature humanoids emerged. Their eyes glowed red, and their mouths were lined exclusively with canines.
Nimerigar. Cyphira wouldn’t have recognized them if they weren’t mentioned in the dossier. They were a type of fae indigenous to the Wind River region. Unlike most fae, they were Wyld creatures, unaffiliated with one of the four seasonal Courts. They did not follow normal laws of exchange and hospitality, attacking humans freely, and they were infamous for devouring Native Ericians. So why are they aligning themselves with one of the Tribes? And how did they cross over? They’re too weak to do it by themselves… which means something worse is with them.
The nimerigar—roughly thirty strong—charged the Amagia from the wall with spears and axes, as their back flank unleashed a volley of arrows. Howell shielded the team with a broad wall of force and Chastain fired off a mass binding contract immobilizing nearly half of their forces. Cruz immediately followed up by creating a localized gravity well amidst the stunned fae. They were sucked into a spiral, bones snapping, and flesh melting into an incredibly dense ball of corpses that burst into fae dust. Cyphira took the opportunity to cast a reflex-enhancing contract, then charged the hole in their ranks, headed for the archers.
A stray bolt of lightning from Stag’s duel with the Thunderbird ripped at the ground beside her, and the thunderous crash left her momentarily deafened. The world became slow and silent. Cyphira drew her blade and cut a swathe through the archer’s ranks, deflecting arrows, and decapitating the monstrous gnomes in a wicked dance.
Gunfire erupted from deeper in the compound, and she narrowly managed to deflect the first stripes of bullets with her wyrd, beating a desperate retreat toward Howell. Then something yanked her by her right ankle and pitched her entire body into the thickest part of the flaming wall.
As she sailed through the air, bracing herself with her wyrd, she caught sight of what had thrown her—a lanky humanoid covered in coarse hair save for a pale, ape-like face. A sasquatch?
Just before she hit the wall, she used a flash of sorcery to douse the flames, sparing herself from the blaze. But the impact still winded her, and the burnt wood collapsed on top of her in a heap. She struggled to draw breath.
This doesn’t make sense. Sasquatches are revered by the tribes, but they never venture this far northwest. And they would never work with nimerigar.
Cyphira finally managed to breathe, and started to clear away the wooden wreckage of the wall with telekinesis. The sasquatch, and the remaining nimerigar, had moved to attack Chastain, Cruz, and Howell. Stag and the Thunderbird were tearing the world apart with titanic contract magic; blasts fit to level skyscrapers.
Backlit by one of the flashes, Cyphira saw the silhouette of another person. His back leg was mangled, but he had managed to crouch on his good leg, and had his rifle leveled at her comrades.
The old guy. He didn’t die when Stag blew up his tower.
Cyphira tried to call out to alert the team to the hostile. She emanated with all the power she could manage, but given the force of the other magic being thrown around, it was like splashing in the ocean during a storm. Desperate, she fired a chisel of ice at the man as fast as she could. Faster than she had ever managed the cantrip before.
But the old man’s trigger finger was faster.
The shot cracked off just before her icicle took him in the head.
Cyphira felt the swelling magic around Stag surge violently. His arms, which had been outstretched and orchestrating a contract, suddenly fell limp. Cyphira spotted an entry wound near his left ear, but as he swayed and fell, she saw the entire right half of his head—from nose to nape—was gone. All that remained was a gory shell of loose flesh, splintered bone, and stray brain matter.
His wyrd didn’t wink out into nothingness, however. The unchecked animus claimed the energies of Stag’s death for itself. Inflamed by the surge of power, the contract immediately destabilized and the surrounding currents of magic raced toward an awful crescendo.
The most powerful combat mage on the planet—the task force’s trump card—was dead.
And his unfinished magic was about to go off like a bomb.
