Faust put the paper down and sighed. And then there was the case of other deities that Konrad and Rene discovered. There had to be a link somewhere in all these secrets.
Ignas gripped Faust’s shoulder and pulled him into a hug. “There is much hiding in the history of the three kingdoms, but obtaining it piece by piece doesn’t give us a great picture. Lord Clare is said to carry an abundance of information on the past, but getting to him is rather difficult.”
Faust knew that too well. It had taken Konrad years to secure an audience with Roltan without a deity shadowing him. “Then I will get a meeting with Lord Clare.”
Ignas turned Faust in his arms. “I can ask Earl for other information he’s found while you rest. I’m concerned that they were still denied clearance in Akarvine. There is something we must be missing. It may not be safe for you to stay in Alios.”
Faust rested his head on Ignas’s shoulder with a nod.
“I will take you to Windilum if I must.” Ignas moved away and brushed Faust’s loose bangs away from his eyes. “I will protect you. Get some rest.”
Faust reluctantly moved back. “You better be at my side when I wake up.”
“As you command,” Ignas said and left the room.
Faust wandered over to the floor bed. It was a bunch of blankets and pelts with even more pillows. He flopped down and closed his eyes, listening to the distant music of the camp. The bedding held Ignas’s scent of gunpowder and blood. He hugged a pillow with a small smile. He liked being surrounded by Ignas like this. It made him feel safe. He placed his glasses aside and buried his face in Ignas’s pillow, drifting into a restless sleep.
Faust stared at the once-beautiful forest he’d seen in his dreams. It was now a mess of fallen trees and jagged scars in the dirt. It pained him to see such destruction of Alimphis. The journals mentioned that times were turbulent between the deities in the past. It appeared that was true. The journals must have belonged to someone close to the deities. Emoris and Lathil knew about the other deities and must have known this person, too. Green sparked to his left, and he turned, the light overwhelming.
Faust gasped awake.
Strong earth magic was coming closer, moving unreasonably fast.
Faust scrambled to his feet, forgoing his glasses. He had to warn Ignas. He rushed through the halls to the ramp in the hull. “Ignas!”
Ignas shot up from his seat, startled.
Faust barreled into Ignas’s arms. “A Servant of Power is coming!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You’re certain?” Ignas asked.
Faust gripped at Ignas’s tunic, his fingers curled in the cloth. “It is not just a Servant of Power. There are Volant, too—several of them.”
Ignas grabbed Faust’s face in his hands. “Breathe, we will handle it. You need to return to the Volliare. Do not use your magic.” Ignas ran his thumb across Faust’s cheek, his gaze earnest.
Faust gasped—he’d forgotten his glasses.
“Go,” Ignas said.
Faust turned on his heel, keeping his head down.
“Prepare for battle!” Ignas shouted. “Launch the Volar and gather the smoke bombs.” He stalked through the campsite to a stack of crates. He ripped the top off and gathered armor into his arms.
Earl barked orders, and the camp scrambled this way and that to gather their weapons.
Faust raced back to Ignas’s room. He grabbed his glasses and his weapons, gathering what he had on the table, aware of the Servant of Power coming closer. Faust checked his armor and placed his swords in their holsters at his hip. He didn’t think he could do this without magic.
Fire magic blazed around him as the Volar took to the sky, and the Volliare rocked with the sound of explosions.
Faust peeked out a window, but smoke blanketed the area. He moved away from the edge and waited by the doorway. Heavy footsteps carried over the wooden planks with the bark of an order to take to the sky. He didn’t want to be on board.
Faust snuck into the halls and out of the airship among the flood of guild members. He concentrated on Ignas’s magic and pinpointed him close to where he’d left him. The smoke billowed, and Faust gawked, desire shuddering through him.
Ignas sat atop an armored horse, his armor sleek and clean with an open-faced helmet. His clothing bore more fur about it, and he carried more weapons.
Faust hid in the shadows when earth magic sang from above, pushing his naughty thoughts away. The trees twisted and the ground rumbled. Faust pitched his sight up and green streaked across the sky. One, two—four—six. Only one was a Servant of Power, and he was coming down.
Fighters fired rounds of explosives at the Volant while others hurled smaller round balls into the air and ignited them. Smoke plumed and distorted in the raging wind.
The Servant of Power descended, his armor streaked with green patterns up and down the metal plates—the fabled armor of a Volant.
Faust sucked in a breath. He hadn’t expected Lathil to send Miklos Verity after him. He was the deity’s most trusted warrior next to his Blessed, Relan.
Miklos hovered, his dark gaze on Ignas. “I have come for Lord Arcus by order of His Excellency Lathil.”
Ignas scoffed. “Lathil is not the sovereign. He doesn’t rate the title.”
Miklos raised one hand, the mark of Lathil shining brightly upon it. The ground rumbled and lurched toward Ignas.
Ignas maneuvered his horse, but the roots spiked in his direction.
Faust focused hard on the magic, yanking it away from Ignas. The spikes wavered and altered course back at Miklos.
Miklos raised an eyebrow and rose higher in search of the stone user, but bullets fell upon his armor, bouncing off. He snarled. He drew his sword and charged Ignas.
Ignas pulled a short sword from its sheath and caught the blow, the ground cracking beneath the horse.
A Volar flew low and provided enough cover for Ignas to hop from his horse and send it galloping. He vaulted over metal crates, his fire stone sparking.
Metal containers lifted throughout the camp.
Miklos flung out a blade of green magic at the pesky Volar. It sliced into the wings and sent it spiraling with a loud crash. Miklos threw his sword in front of him, a sharp green racing along the blade as he cut the crate in half.
It exploded.
Miklos flew backward onto the ground, skidding and rolling.
“Gunners!” Ignas bellowed. “Fire!”
A volley of shots rang down from the deck and within the trees at the Servant of Power. Loud clanging echoed into the sky as Volar flew back into the fray with their captured Volant tangled in metal nets.
Faust held his breath. He’d never seen Volant brought down with metal nets. It was a surprisingly simple yet effective tactic. This wasn’t something anyone boasted about, nor was it anything he saw the Volant train to evade.
Miklos swung one hand and green blades swished out in arcs.
Ignas ducked and rolled behind more metal crates. “Archers!” he called.
Metal arrows vaulted from the deck of the Volliare, and Miklos jumped around, striking at the offending rods. He aimed for the deck. The planks barely shifted into vines, crawling up the walls.
Ignas’s lips curled into a grin. “Seen these tactics before?”
Miklos growled and launched for Ignas despite the volley of gunfire and arrows. He flung more blades of green at the mercenary, and the ground spiked about.