The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

Mirian broke the surface of the Mahatan Oasis to find that the battle there was already over. Rostal was sitting on a rock by the shore using a rag to clean the blood off his sword. A number of guards, mages, and Holy Sentinels were guarding the shore. Several corpses lay scattered about, along with several smoldering carts. The fossilized myrvite fuel inside the spellbombs had been burned before the bombs could be detonated. She could feel the toxic fumes of the low-grade mana drifting past her aura.

“You’re late,” Rostal said, not looking up from his sword.

“Nice to see at least one of the Gates didn’t need my help,” Mirian said, sitting next to him. Even though there were alert patrols roaming about, she did her usual divination checks. She glanced about to check who the nearby people were. She recognized Holy Sentinel Eyula, who had accompanied Mirian her first time in the city. The Nine Spires of the Isheer still glittered in the sun. Atop each would be mages with lens spells.

“I don’t believe Liuan or Gabriel have the capabilities to initiate another attack like that. I expect the next assault will be an Akanan invasion across the Rift Sea, while the armies she’s assembled here move from Urubandar to Alatishad. Then the Akanans will strike north for Mahatan or move east then north to Mayat Shadr. She’s held her most elite forces in reserve for those final pushes; none of her archmages or best Sorcerer Elite were part of that last attack force. Probably wise, given that all the equipment she sent over is irrecoverable. Your new dervishes and the Holy Sentinels will have mythril jewelry sent over within the next few days. Half of the recovered skiffs will be deployed to Palendurio, while the other half I’ll have flown here once they’re repaired. That might take a few weeks. However, my sources inform me that Liuan used the souls of the leviathans she butchered to forge adamantium, and it seems she was more active in the Labyrinth than I realized. There will be four Akanan Dreadnoughts, not two. Nevertheless, they will be taken care of.”

Rostal finished cleaning his blade and sheathed it in a single fluid motion. “Alatishad has formed a council of rectors. Right now, they are deciding who to ally with.”

“Interesting,” Mirian said. She’d seen hundreds of futures, but she hadn’t seen this one before. “The Isheer rectors forsake wealth as part of their position, and each trusted by their communities. It’s an effective representative government. They’re also already experts on the various holy texts. It seems like a wonderful way to stabilize western Persama. Is there popular support for forming one here?”

Rostal was quiet as he looked out on the sparkling oasis waters. ““If Ibrahim were here, he would have started running for Alatishad as soon as I’d told him.”

“I have his fire. But all fire must be tempered.”

The dervish continued not to meet her eye. “The sailors fear the tempest most at dusk, when the dark clouds cover the dance of the dusk waves like the hand of a sinister shadow, reaching for the heart. No spear can cut the sky, and even the spear that cuts through water only finds itself embraced.”

Mirian smiled. Rostal was quoting the classics of Persama. She chose her own passage from a different text. “Like the water, the wise ship moves with the storm. That which can be broken can also be carried.”

The old dervish grunted approval.

“If they need it, they have my approval.”

Rostal was silent again for a time. “The Setarab River talks. Alatishad heard what you did in Urubandar. They will pay a heavy price for siding with you. Though these sands have soaked up blood before.”

“All of Enteria has been wounded. Each life we lose to this foolish war cuts at my soul. But scars teach wisdom. My hope is that a scar great as this one will be remembered for generations.”

“Perhaps,” is all Rostal said.

Mirian took a deep breath. The faint smell of desert flowers mingled with the nearby smoke. “The Zhighuan Revolutionary Army has assembled three army groups. They will have arrived at the eastern headwaters of the Setarab River by now. Should Mahatan and Alatishad welcome them, they will move to a forward position. They have been trained in an anti-Akanan doctrine I developed over the years. They will assist with layers upon layers of fortifications. Alkazaria’s production of supplies for the leyline regulator has passed its most critical point; more weapons will be on their way through the oasis. The Baracueli Engineer Corps Second Division has finished their work in Mayat Shadr, and will be assisting in fortifications.”

Rostal took those words in, but said nothing, as was his habit. “Too much fire leaves ash from which not even a phoenix can rise from.”

Mirian knew what he was getting at, but had to be careful in her reply. Despite their caution, and despite the purges here, Gabriel would still have some informants. “I’m aware of Ibrahim’s movements. You know that above all else, he fights for his family, whether that be his relatives or his people. I have reason not to worry about the most recent developments.”

“Hmph,” Rostal said. “We are motes of dust that God can hardly see. Our deaths are no more than the exhalation of breath.”

More references to the classics. Mirian merely nodded, even if she disagreed. They were all ants to the Ominian, but They had looked upon the swarming hills of tiny creatures with affection; this she knew. Rostal and the Isheer believed in divinity beyond even that. She would argue neither for nor against that. Knowledge of the Ominian was enough for her. Her eyes drifted up to the Luamin moon. She was still waiting on her next round of intelligence reports from Akana.

“I need to learn more of Liuan’s precise deployments. Palendurio will need to be linked with Uxalak to dissipate leyline buildup for a full week. Until then, I’ll be there, harassing Akanan forces. No night is so dark it has no dawn. No storm is so wrathful it has no end. Fight well.” She clapped Rostal on the shoulder and stood.

The old dervish continued to sit and contemplate the reflection of the sky on the oasis.

***

Celen finished scanning one of the newspapers, then nodded his approval of the issue. The man presenting it hesitated a moment, then dashed out of the room. Soon enough, the presses would be churning it out. The Mercanton Post was a respected newspaper. It always bothered him how easy it was to lie to people. Whatever ways people found to erect defenses against lies, there was always a way to slip through the gap and worm their way in. Repeat a lie enough, he mused. But armies marched on them, and here in Akana it was particularly easy. Here, the war hadn’t touched them—not really. The smoke from Cairnmouth had crossed the Rift Sea and mingled with Mercanton’s own odors, but even then, people just went on with their lives. When does a system become so complex that ordinary people give up even trying to comprehend it? he wondered, and not for the first time. It was a question his mind had been running over again and again.

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Eventually, his thoughts drifted to his stories. He didn’t write them anymore; too frustrating to have to rewrite them every time the cycle came to a close. Truly, the timeloop was crueler to an artist than to every other profession.

His gaze went to the window. Below, there were people scurrying about. He caught sight of one of the units on a nearby roof. They were looking up at him, he realized. He gave them a nod, and one of them saluted him.

Celen’s wandering mind went to Jherica. Liuan had suggested they separate themselves so that Mirian couldn’t… but then he stopped. Why did I agree? If Jherica was removed from the loop, he would want to join them. They had long ago decided to share their fate. And if Mirian wanted to remove our anchors, she could have. Why would she…?

He pushed that line of thought, but remembering the conversation clearly was difficult. The harder he tried to remember it, the more it seemed to slip away.

That was disturbing. Almost like…

But that thought didn’t finish either. He felt the urge to get back to work—but he hated working. Had always hated it. He liked dreaming. Wondering. Creating.

Celen had studied memory and the mind quite a bit. Liuan had gotten the universities to study… something. Something he’d found interesting, though that had been long ago and his memory wasn’t so good anymore. Memories were connected, like a spider web, and if one strand was cut, there were other strands to follow. He loved Jherica; he knew this. They shouldn’t have been separated, but it was for their own protection. Protection. He glanced out the window again. That guard was watching him. Not watching out for assassins or flying wizards—watching him.

He decided to leave. He wandered out of his office. The building was full of newly promoted RID workers, the official headquarters having been deemed too likely a target for attack once the war had started. Which made sense. As did the guards by the force elevator.

Celen approached the elevator, but before he could step on the shimmering platform, one of the guards said, “Sir, it’s not safe out there. There’s reason to believe the false prophet has seeded assassins in the area. Our agents are looking into it, but until then, we’d ask you stay here where we can best protect you.”

Now there was an interesting story. Much like the kind he created sometimes. It had a hero, a villain, and an unresolved conflict. He didn’t say anything, just wandered back to his office and started looking through drawers. Where was his levitation wand? His spellbook? He had a higher myr rating than anyone in this building. Why did he only have a few combat wands?

In fact…

He took out his fireball wand and used raw magic to crack open the wood. The glyphs were wrong. This wasn’t a fireball wand at all. It was a deliberately weakened firebolt wand.

That confirmed it, then.

He sat there, staring out the window, running through different thoughts, trying to see what he could and couldn’t think of. Thinking of Liuan as his enemy was difficult. Certain memories jumped out to him easily. Others were like grasping fog.

He should have felt rage, but Celen was never one to anger. Instead, he felt despair, and a deep dark pit opened up beneath him. That was a familiar feeling.

His mind wasn’t his own. The one thing he wanted, the one thing—he’d killed himself a thousand times just to deny that bastard Troytin his mind. It was his.

He had the violet focus for communicating in the Ominian’s dream. Not ideal for dealing with curses, but he should at least be able to assess the damage. Celen’s mind strained as he closed his eyes and searched. Why couldn’t he find anything? When he ran his own soul energy around his mind, he could start to feel strange anomalies, but he couldn’t sense any bindings.

Celen’s gaze turned to the firebolt wand he’d cracked open. That was one way out.

No, he decided. Not until Jherica was with him.

He cracked open his other wands, seeing what he was actually working with. The layered shield wand actually was what he’d been told. The remote whisper wand, though, had a modification. Someone else would be picking up whatever he communicated. He chucked it in a waste bin. A specific sequence like that would be too easy to track. Not a lot to work with.

For a long time, he’d wondered why the Ominian had chosen him. Only when Mirian had brought them to Luamin had he finally understood. He closed his eyes, soul touching the violet focus with him. Jherica likely wasn’t asleep right now, but he had to try.

Then, rumbling broke him out of his meditation. Celen looked out the window again. There was smoke rising in the distance. Over by the docks, he reasoned. Then, he heard explosions going off. The sky lit up with shells bursting. An attack!

The RID personnel were scrambling into action. Alarm spells blared out across Mercanton, telling people to seek shelter. Celen peeked out the window again. The guards on the adjacent roof had turned their attention towards the explosions.

That changed things. Celen sealed the firebolt wand back up, then used it to blast a hole in the window. With the explosions and the wailing sounds of alarm engines, it was hardly noticeable. He cast layered shield and jumped out the window.

Celen channeled mana specifically through the force portion of the shielding wand, modifying it so that it created an upward force that slowed his fall. It was damn hard to do, but even a mediocre mage got pretty good with a few decades of practice. He landed in a heap, hands bleeding from where he’d caught himself against the cobblestones.

He started jogging. This was Mercanton; he knew better than anyone.

There was a social code people followed; a pressure that exerted itself on the human body as much as kinetic energy or heat. Celen had shed that code long ago. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. A normal person wouldn’t just saunter into someone’s home and start taking clothes out of their dresser, but that’s what he did, leaving the man whose home he’d entered sputtering. He tore off his own shirt, took a new one, then put a jacket over that and left through the window again—this one was on the ground floor, so it wasn’t so bad. Then he cut through an alley, then used raw magic to heat up the hinges of the target door, then raw kinetic force to saw a hole around the deadbolt and doorknob.

That brought him into the back of a magic emporium, where he immediately started ransacking the place for what he needed. Some alarm ward triggered—he wasn’t at all being stealthy—but he quickly cracked open one of the secure rooms and pilfered a few pre-scribed spellbooks and helped himself to a scribing kit and some ink. The shop owner yelled at him, but he’d been yelled at before. Celen just cast his layered shield and walked back out the way he’d come. With alarms blaring across the city to take shelter, the furious shop owner didn’t follow him.

He flipped through the pile of spellbooks, settling on an illusionary disguise spell to change the color of his hair. A nearby shop carrying traveler’s packs was locked, the owner probably having gone to the basement. He broke the window, grabbed a pack, stuffed his things in there, then continued walking along. A few shifts of the disguise, and he lost the random woman who’d seen him break in and had chased after him to yell.

Then he just kept walking. There were more explosions by the dockside, so he moved west until he found a random apartment building he could break into. With a few divination spells, he found a maintenance room, this time breaking in more carefully, and locked the door behind him.

With a deep breath, Celen touched the violet focus. Despair still ripped at the edges of his mind, but he’d lived with it for so long now he ignored it. He would break Jherica free as well. Whatever came next, they would do together.

===

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