Weight of Worlds

Ranvir fought on. He couldn’t permit his body’s signal to reach him. He shoved them down. Pushed them into a dark hole, shoveling his spirit and all of his soul over top. Something was wrong with his human arm. After the Saleema struck him with the first boulder, fast enough to tear through a fortress.

He’d barely gotten out of the way and the simple brush had still left a hesitation on his shoulder. A twinge of resistance or weakness. He had no effective way of fighting back against the boulders. Either he or Loce could tear them down if they worked together, but not enough of them.

The stones were massive enough that they needed only a fraction of her pebbles to strike much harder. The compressed space within the pillars took advantage of gravity, looping them through pocket-spaces, but even those were small and difficult to reach. Little more than two openings. Finding them was a delicate act. Unsuitable for the battlefield.

And still they fought on. The horizon brightening in the distance. The fight was set, and the results were in. He’d lost. He would lose. He’d hit his wall, and she hadn’t. Whether they’d fought for three days or a hundred-and-ten? All that was left was for Saleema to land a killing blow. However long that would take. However long he could stretch it.

Cayed Brethson observed the fighting at the Breach from a pavilion. Taking in the combat while sitting at his ease. Or seeming to, at least. There were at least three notable military commanders, even if they were just Thirds, another couple Priests, at least ten times their number of servants and another hundred soldiers in reserve.

They were just under five kilometers away from the Breach, far enough that none other than a light-lashed could observe the fight. Not that his senses lacked at such distances.

Seeming at ease was far more important than actually being at ease. The common folk needed their heroes, and their heroes couldn’t worry about the circumstances of the situation. Fixing problems without being seen to monitor them.

That was partly what Cries was therefor. Climbing high into the sky, the Ghost was nearly invisible at these distances, little more than a gray ribbon against gloomy clouds. Likely, a few Priests had noticed him. He was only a Bishop after all, but then again, they weren’t the ones they were trying to calm.

With a five kilometer distance, his Wings were spread to their limit engulfing what they could of the army and he worked largely through his Piercer for fine work. Minor twitches of his power, nothing more. A slightly altered path in space, turning the horde-giant’s step into a lunge. Slowing a swift-striker enough for protections to be raised. Enhancing an obsidian projectile, giving it just enough force to punch through a bulwark’s tough hide.

This far, the Breach turned into something almost pleasant. The ordered ranks of their armies fighting against the vaguely flailing Flesh-torn. Rising waves of coordinated attacks. The rolling defenses at the front, a mix of normal iron weaponry and lashed techniques. All that effort to stem the tide escaping the rip in the world.

The Breach, Revand’s wound poured tiny gremlins and occasionally vast abominations. All scrambling to overtake the plane and seize the Star. A path of revenge for their dead father. Dead or dying, it still presented a task worthy of the entirety of society.

“How are they doing?” One of the Priest, Vexad, asked. He quivered with agitation, annoyed at being held back. Of the newly invested regiments, one was to be his. However, as part of every regiment’s training, they needed experience without a central commander, else they might fall apart should the line of communication collapse.

It had happened embarrassingly often, to Cayed’s estimate. Perhaps his perspective was a little altered from the regular, being a space-tethered and all.

“The 110th are doing well,” Cayed informed him, turning a speararm’s thrust into a near miss. The flesh-torn was struck down moments later. “They are keeping their cool.”

Vexad nodded, his wings and tails nearly vibrating in rhythm with the slight glow of dark underneath his skin. The obsidian-lashed had never had command before. That much was clear. “That is good. I requested as many as a could from the Ghosts.”

Cayed nodded. “Smartly done.” It was rare that someone sought to make use of the Ghosts. Their strange Discipline left them altered the further along they advanced, and they lacked direct offensive capability. Even space-tethered were more aggressively equipped.

Being the only organized group of single Disciplines and having a long tradition of holding the human grounds, the other schools, academies, other education-offices had to look elsewhere for experience.

The Ghosts in the 110th showed their practice now, handling the stresses of the battlefield well. Far better than either of the other two regiments.

“Many say the Ghosts aren’t good at fighting the Flesh-torn after learning against humans. Too ingrained in their types of attack.” This from another of the Priests, Pessat. She was older than Vexad and was adding a new regiment, the 111th, to her existing command.

Cayed nodded, much to the younger Priest’s dismay. Younger, he’s the same age as me. “And what is the human type of attack? What is their strategy?”

Pessat went quiet, then stepped back. As she should. It was a ridiculous statement. The humans sometimes changed tactics depending on the time of year, how far North they were. There was no such thing as a ‘human-type of attack,’ it was simply noise developed from studying the Flesh-torn for too long.

“Look!” one of the Third’s cried, pointing into the distance. A hulking giant of the Flesh-torn, forty feet tall and multiple tons, toppled. Cayed stifled a grimace. The 109th brought had brought it down, but their effort was messy. He reached out, trying to slow it down, but such mass took a certain amount of effort.

He felt Cries’s attention shoot from the Breach to him. A warning. Clearing his throat to hide the growl, Cayed let it fall. As slowly as he could allow it. Soldiers escaped its fall, many of them. More than had he done nothing, but not enough.

Pessat whistled, clapping another of the Priest on the shoulder. They couldn’t see the toll in men it had cost them. Cayed didn’t want to tell them. He touched the obsidian torque around his arm. As he did, the eyes around the crowd subtly drifted away from him.

“You must be careful.” Cries intoned, as if at a sermon or lecture. “You risked summoning a Ralith.” It’s voice sounded solely within Cayed’s head, giving the impression that it was standing right in front of him, rather than a couple miles off in the sky.

Cries was one for formality, rites, and rules. Cayed had been stationed at the Breach many times. Exerted such effort during countless events and never had he summoned a Ralith. “A Ralith wouldn’t have stopped me.” He whispered, quiet enough that none other could hear it.

“That is not the toll of a Ralith, and you know it.”

Cayed rose to fill his goblet, but before he’d even gotten out of the seat, a servant offered him a fresh. Gold gleamed in the intricate filigree. Dark wine precisely three centimeters below the brim. He smiled and said thanks he didn’t mean, then felt guilt when the servant lit up like he’d set on fire. His wings, effete and weak as his Disciple in shook such as to kick up a chill breeze within the pavilion.

“I know,” he whispered to Cries. “My apologies.” He wrapped his tail around his mouth this time, signaling that he was talking with someone else. Vexad paced behind his chair.

“It is of no issue, Prophet.”

Just don’t let it happen again. The Ghost would never dare say such things, but Cayed felt them anyway. He straightened his seat, nearly sloshing wine over the rim of his cup.

“I warned you.” Cries’ words were nearly a hiss. As much as they could be, coming from such an insubstantial presence.

Cayed was swallowed by purple light, joining Cries’ position in the sky. Spark and flares of purple rose hundreds of meters high into the sky. Normally, the Breach was little more than a slight dark line, wide enough for a person to slip through. Occasionally, it stretched to allow something larger through, their sheer mass forcing the gap wider. And whenever a Prophet or Bishop made a mistake, the Breach was torn wide.

Hundreds of gremlins, swift-strikers, bulwarks, and more fell through the ripping space. Gouts of violet reached so far into the sky, if they were actual flames, the heat would’ve seared the army before it. And then the passage was clear. They could see into the Flesh-torn’s foul realm.

A creature so massive it made up the entire space, coiled in and in on itself. Muscle and skin sloughed off the serpentine creature in rotting boulders. One milky-white eye, dead and dull, could be seen through the gap. Despite its obviously dead existence, the Father of Horror still spewed forth its unending bile of horrid children.

Yet now, the growth of new kin had stilled. A single power blossomed within the Breach. Everyone stopped fighting, even the other minions of the Father.

“Prepare yourself, Prophet.” Cries said. “I shall prepare a shield as best I can. Perhaps we can avoid the summoning of another.”

Cayed tensed, spreading his wings and preparing his stinger. His Disciplines were spread wide, but the Bishop next to him could not affect a large area.

The creature was no bigger than a person. Four-legged and six-armed, it cracked through the air at speed. Its meteoric initial sprint blew past both armies, leaving a ragged gap. Yet, it never once looked at the two lashed standing at the ready. In five seconds, it was directly underneath them. Their surprise bought it another five. Already, the Ralith was difficult to track; the distance growing swiftly.

“Cries, follow it!” Cayed ordered.

The banner of gray bandage streamed after the Ralith. It couldn’t keep up, but Ghosts were the only ones who could track the damned things. Cayed began opening portals. “Calling a Hall of Stars, all Prophets and Bishops. A Ralith has emerged.”

“Ralith?” Nuyid’s voice sounded first, her surprise clear by the sloshing of bathwater.

“Where is it going?” Daysin’s voice asked.

“It’s the fastest I’ve ever seen. I’ve sent Cries after it.”

Chatter broke out among even the highest of the People, but Daysin’s quiet words ascended Cayed’s unease.

“The humans.”

Two simple words, and yet he felt the balance of the plane tip.