The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy-Chapter 169 - Learning the Hard Way

From her hill, Mirian watched the Akanan air yacht approach. In the end, it would be Troytin’s predictability and inflexibility that would do him in. And his inability to conceive of a world where allies are better than underlings.

Well, no sense ruminating on his deficiencies. Whatever they were, he had to go. Mirian waited for the airship to grow closer, then cast total camouflage and levitation. She rapidly rose up to meet the yacht, adjusting her course slightly as it approached.

She waited, just above where it would pass, then embraced the Dusk Waves dervish stance for the extra reaction time. As soon as the deck was below her, she dropped down. The watchman on the deck heard the thud and turned, but she held still until he turned back. Then Mirian headed below decks.

A carpeted spiral staircase brought her down to the first level. There, in the narrow hall, was Marshal Cearsia. She either noticed the distortion in the air or felt Mirian’s aura, because her spellbook was in her hand in an instant.

First, she’ll try the shackle spell, Mirian knew, and sure enough, she did. The force shackles disintegrated against her spell resistance. Mirian summoned Eclipse to her hand and gave a downward slice through the Marshal’s spellbook, which let out a burst of flame, then lunged, piercing her gut.

Cearsia grunted, then tried to blast Mirian with a raw heat spell as she staggered back. Mirian blocked it with a prismatic shield, then used a force blade spell to cut off her head. The woman dropped to the ground. Mirian opened the first cabin door. One of the agents. She sent force blades through him, slicing his bed to ribbons, then moved to the next cabin.

Troytin was sitting up in alarm. He reached for his spellbook.

Too late, Mirian thought with a snarl. She used a blast of raw force to knock it out of his reach, then used total hold person. That would prevent him from moving, biting down, or even breathing too hard. She used force blast on the wall. The warded wooden hull cracked. She used disintegration ray to knock out the easiest-to-reach reinforcing glyphs. Behind her, she could hear commotion. She used force blast again, and this time the hull buckled. A third time, and she burst a hole in the wall. Troytin’s eyes widened in alarm as the hull opened up into the open air, wind screaming by them.

Mirian continued to hold him with the spell, dragging him out into the air with her. She switched to the Lone Pine stance for endurance, and used force grapple to give herself the pushes she needed to stay the same speed as the ship. Then, she took aim at the stabilizing wings with magnetic detonation, enhancing it with her full power.

The metal anchoring the port wing shrieked as it was twisted. The ship began to list. She could just make out shouting over the roar of the wind. Mirian circled them under the ship, using more force grapples to keep them alongside it, then took aim at the second wing. With a gesture, it too exploded, ripping off entirely and shooting off behind them. Mirian used lift object to push the rear of the ship up, bringing the nose beyond any safe angle. With no stability, the airship began to spin, diving down as it did. Mirian used another magnetic explosion, this time aiming for the inside of the ship where she knew the primary spell engine was. The ship shuddered.

Mirian cut her inertia with levitation and descended straight down, Troytin in tow. The skiff continued forward, plummeting faster and faster until it hit the ground and erupted in flames. Mirian watched the wreckage to make sure there were no survivors as she continued her descent. Satisfied, she brought the two of them to the top of a hill where her myrvite-repelling wards were still in place. She used detect myrvite to double check nothing would bother them.

Troytin was looking at her, eyes watering because the total hold person spell was making it hard for him to blink. She used careful force blades to cut apart his clothing, leaving him only in his underwear. Sure enough, he had an arcane catalyst hidden in his boot. Mirian brought Troytin down so he was at eye level with her, then forced his mouth open, checking for any poison pills like Specter had. Nothing. She circled around him. Nothing. She checked his ears for any miniature devices, then used a series of divination spells to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

Satisfied, she released total hold person and switched it to hold person, which would just keep his limbs and body immobile.

“Got you,” she said, giving him a fake smile.

“Fuck you,” Troytin said in Eskanar, and spat at her.

Mirian blocked it with a raw burst of force, sending the spittle back into his face. “That’s not really endearing you to me. Not that it matters. In the end, I’m only talking to you because I want one thing from you.”

Troytin gave Mirian a condescending smirk. “You’ll get nothing from me. You might as well kill me. But whatever you try, it won’t work. See, there’s no way to pin me down. If you curse me, a priest will just break the curse. There’s no way for you to reach me, because your primitive little country doesn’t have proper airships. In the end, you are at my mercy. This little setback means nothing.”

Mirian looked bored. “You still think this about you. Do you know anything meaningful about the time loop? About the leylines? The Divine Monument? The Ominian? About the apocalypse?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Troytin said smugly.

Mirian sighed. “Have you figured out that we were supposed to work together yet? Imagine. If you collected data on the leylines in Akana Praediar, I collected it here, and Ibrahim collected it in Persama, we could figure out what’s disrupting them. You could mobilize the resources of the Akanans, building great spell engines. Ibrahim would be able to unite all the warlords in Persama and provide the fuel. I could get Baracuel under my thumb, bringing together its researchers and unlocking the secrets of the Monument. Together, we might have actually been able to stabilize the leylines and stop the moonfall by now.”

Troytin laughed at her. “You’re a fool, and so is that Persaman rat. After you, he’s next. There’s only one Ominian. There is only ever one Prophet. And it will be me.”

Mirian looked him over. “Huh. You sure about that? You might want to… lift weights, maybe? Learn a few more spells? Grow a few inches?”

The other time traveler glared at her. She’d broached a sensitive subject for him. She knew from his illusion spells he liked to present himself as taller and more muscular. “The others underestimated me too,” he snapped. “And one by one, I ended them. Jherica will never wake up now. Celen succumbed to despair.” He laughed. “I didn’t even learn the others’ names. My little agents took care of them for me. The Ominian can see they were unworthy. After you all fall to me, the true trial will begin.”

Mirian froze. Had he really just let that slip? Or was he playing a game with her? “Where are they?” she asked.

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“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

That wasn’t going to work. “Did you know Specter was writing notes for herself all over your soul?” she asked.

That gave him pause. “Only a select few are blessed by the Ominian to be born with…” he started, but trailed off.

“Yeah, you really think the Ominian chose you as a Prophet, but wouldn’t bless you with soul magic? Look, you’ve been lied to by a lot of people, and you believe it because it feeds your ego. But the truth is a harder thing to face. Specter was manipulating you. Did you ever figure out where the hole above your bed came from?”

Troytin strained against his bonds.

Mirian rolled her eyes. “For all intents and purposes, I can hold you indefinitely. I just stood against Apophagorga, a cataclysm beast. Do you really think you stand a fucking chance against me?”

The other time traveler looked down, seeing her spellbook—really seeing it—for the first time. The ethereal shimmer of the Holy Pages. The adamantium and mythril frame.

“Now you’re starting to understand. I wasn’t running from you because I was weak. Unlike you, I actually have a plan to solve this.” Sort of. “Now are you going to tell me anything useful? Do you actually know anything useful?”

The man was silent. She could see his eyes darting around. Perhaps he didn’t quite realize what was about to happen to him, but he knew it wouldn’t be good.

“Behind you!” Troytin said.

Mirian burst out laughing. “There’s no one around for miles. And if you didn’t notice, Tyrcast and the other arcanists you brought along don’t carry levitation wands. Bit of a problem if their airship malfunctions, don’t you agree? I chose a place I was sure we wouldn’t be disturbed. Unless you think the stone moles will save you?”

Troytin struggled against the spell again, but it would do nothing. Even without her soul repositories, his spell resistance was too feeble to be a problem for her anymore.

“I know your measure too well. See, you could have apologized to me at any time. Tried to make amends. The thing is, you showed your true character when you had the upper hand. There’s an old quote about that, I think. ‘Power doesn’t corrupt, it reveals.’ Would you like to apologize? Finally do something to help stop these endless years of apocalypse? This is your last chance.”

The Akanan was silent. His eyes were darting around, still looking for some way out. “Fuck you,” he said.

“Very well. Those can be your last words as ‘Prophet.’” She said the last word with scorn. Then she began to cast.

There was another spell she’d been developing in Endresen’s lab. A mixed celestial-arcane spell that required several tri-bonded sequences and a great deal of precision and control. Mirian closed her eyes and began to cast remove temporal anchor.

Tiny prongs of arcane-celestial force entered the void in Troytin’s soul. With her eyes closed, it was easier to imagine them moving into that four-dimensional space. She couldn’t describe the image, but with the coordinates in her mind, she could see it. Gradually, she brought the force into contact with the four-dimensional blade wedged in his soul. She transmuted the energy from arcane to physical force and gently folded the first anchor blade.

Troytin’s soul roiled. He strained again, this time shouting out. “What the fuck are you doing? Let me go! I’m a Prophet! We—you said it yourself. We need to work together!”

Mirian ignored him and concentrated. Another arcane tendril wove its way around the anchor. She pushed, and another blade folded in. She maintained the pressure, careful to keep the device steady.

The other time traveler, at last, was starting to figure it out. For someone unaccustomed to soul magic, it might feel like something was crawling around his insides. A terribly unnerving feeling. “Wait! Wait! Celen is in Mercanton, on Merchant’s Avenue, above the wainwright shop. Jherica is in Vadriach, in the… the University! I—I don’t remember where, but you can find him. Fuck, what are you doing? I c-can—feel it. A pressure. P-please stop.”

Mirian folded the third prong up back into the device. Her brow furrowed as she strained with the effort. The device was trying to move, but she had to keep it steady. If she or it brushed the inside of the dimensional container it had created for itself—or whatever it was—Troytin would find himself removed from this cycle. If that happened, only the Ominian knew how long it would be before she got another chance.

Troytin had gone pale and clammy. His voice had a tremor in it, and he was starting to slur his words. “W-was lying about the o-other travelers… w-wait… was I? Whatever… whatever you’re doing… y-you have t-to… have to stop….” He let in a sharp intake of breath. There were distortions in his soul like she’d never seen before, originating from the last arm of the Elder device. “C-can’t r-remember. Never could figure out the… the Monument. C-can’t stop me… too safe at Arborholm… c-can’t… can’t…”

With the precision of a surgeon, Mirian folded the last prong down, wrapping the entire thing with stabilizing force. She wanted to keep the anchor, study it. Perhaps it could be implanted in someone more worthy. It would be her choice this time. She’d finally have an ally, a friend, could stop being so lonely—

The last arm of the anchor clicked back into the main body. She gently applied force to remove it, but suddenly the thing shot out, sending Mirian stumbling backward. There was a crack! in the air as it sped past her, then a gentle rumble like distant thunder, then it was gone. Damnit! Mirian thought. It could have been Jei. It could have been Lily. Or Lecne. Or—damn!

She looked longingly to the southeast. She couldn’t tell exactly where it had gone, it had been moving too fast. She could stop a moving bullet with ease, but the anchor had moved with far more force than should have been possible. That should do it, though, she thought. She released the holding spell on Troytin. The hole in his soul was gone.

“W-what… what have you done to me?” Troytin gasped, clutching his chest. He was covered in sweat and still pale.

“I’ve removed you from the time loop,” she said. “You’re no longer a Prophet. You were never worthy of the name.” She burned his pile of clothes with a bit of raw magic and telekinetically flung the extra catalyst, his pistol, and his dagger off into the distance.

Troytin let out a shriek and fell to his knees. “No… no! You can’t… the Ominian chose me! The Ominian chose me!”

She had wanted to return to Torrviol with the anchor, but with that out of reach, she needed to see what she could learn from him. She looked down at him with disgust. Enteria comes first, she decided. “For the rest of the cycle, we will live in the remote wilderness. After all, I can’t risk you telling any of the other time travelers what I can do. If they realize the capability exists, they might try to learn it. And I don’t want anyone like you learning to do what I’ve just done. This cycle, you may redeem yourself by telling me about the Deeps. About Akana Praediar and the little conspiracy over there. Operation Zenith. Specter. The networks in Baracuel. What you know of Ibrahim. Anything you learned about the Monument. Or…” She hesitated. He had grown desperate at the end. She didn’t think he’d been lying, though the implications already disturbed her. “Or Celen or Jherica. Tell me everything.”

“Fuck you!” he screamed. “I’ll tell you nothing! The Ominian… He’ll smite you. And restore me to my rightful place. You’ll burn in the last layer of hell for what you’ve done!” Tears streaked his face. He stood and charged at Mirian, though it was more stumbling than anything worrisome. Mirian stepped to the side and threw him like Rostal had taught her and he fell, sprawled out on the cold grass. He spit out a mouthful of dirt.

Mirian sighed, then started dragging him north by his leg until he tired of having his face dragged about in the grass and rose to his feet.

***

During the day, when she wasn’t interrogating Troytin, Mirian hunted, practiced spells, or just spent time relaxing. Without clothes, shoes, or any weapon, Troytin wasn’t going anywhere in the cold wilderness. At night, she used shape stone to trap his arms and feet, then set up anti-myrvite wards. Then they’d pack up camp and move north again.

By the time the Akanans invaded, they were miles and miles from the line of attack. Too far for any divination to catch them.

In the end, she learned little. Troytin spent most of his last days cursing or begging. Occasionally, he’d tell her tidbits of information as part of his pleading. Between the rants, lies, and bargaining, she picked up a few things. A bit about security operations in Akana Praediar. A few tidbits about the conspiracy and its leaders. Some more about the Deeps and the coup.

Her nemesis’s end was a pathetic sight. He begged and pleaded with her to restore the temporal anchor, as if it was even in her power to do so once it was gone. By the time the end came, he’d stopped doing that. Wouldn’t answer questions, wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t even speak. Just sat there, listlessly, staring at the ground, eyes red from crying.

Mirian had little pity for him. He never tried to redeem himself. Redemption isn’t for everyone, she heard Arenthia say.

As Troytin watched the moon grow large as it came down somewhere over Persama, trembling in terror, Mirian knew, certainly, it wasn’t for him.

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