Slumrat Rising

Chapter 82: In Every Drop of Water, An Ocean

The Shotibl were not lovely birds. Tall, covered in rough gray feathers, and with a face dominated by a wide hooked beak as long as a forearm. They had a deathly glare to them. And yet, they were quite docile, according to Jember. These Shotibl decided there was no future for the meek. They were thirsty. They would drink that strange water from another dimension. Truth and the others would die for standing in their way.

Truth had a magic sword. It was a really, really good magic sword. And he cheerfully would have swapped it for an Army standard issue Needler right now. Swords, famously, were not ranged weapons. Even his POS acid bolter would be an improvement right now… which he still had lashed to the frame of his two-wheeler!

Truth sprinted for his iron horse. The birds saw him moving and dove on him. The holy blade flicked out, not trying to cut but to break the momentum of the attack. Force them to divert. The birds came in fast, flared their wings, and screeched.

The noise was tearing, penetrating, like the whine of bone drills into his skull. He tried to push through. He had the sudden realization that he had never tasted moonlight, and until he did, he would never really know the moon. Or the love of a mother, because without knowing the moon, how could he know a mother-

Long claws tore open his back. A wicked beak jabbed down to tear out his spine. Truth spun fast, far faster than a human should be able to, beheading the unnatural thing. The spray of blood from his back made a red crescent in the dirt. He kept pushing for the iron horse as the birds shrieked reminders of all he had lost and all he had never known.

The accumulated blows to his mind quickly started to take effect. Truth was swaying by the time he reached the two-wheeler, and he didn’t trust his fingers to untie the fetish. He jabbed his sword at a couple more birds making strafing runs, then quickly sliced the fetish free.

Ranged weaponry at last! One of the gray horrors screamed a reminder of what it was like to miss three meals in two days and that no matter how long he lived, he would never get those meals back. Beak open, it dove for his face.

Truth tore apart the gaping maw with a bolt of high-speed acid. He was already lining up on his third target before the first hit the ground. His aim was off, but he made up for a lack of accuracy with the volume of fire. The fight was over very quickly after that. He looked over at Merkovah and the others. They were quite safe, guarded by a little speck of sun-bright spirit.

The loss of adrenaline quickly brought the long gashes in him to the top of the priority list. He could ignore the pain during the fight. Now? His back shivered with freezing pain. A feeling of burning alternated with the cold, the drip, drip, drip of life flowing out of him and infection settling in.

“I don’t suppose you can cast that healing spell again?”

Truth was patched up without too much difficulty. Between a Level Seven exorcist and two highly competent ritualists, the tears in Truth’s muscles were quickly mended, and the infection banished. The mental damage would take longer, as it was apparently not a curse as the word was generally used.

“This is alarming. Alarming. The corruption of sapients has been well established, but to corrupt birds in this way? Very alarming.” Merkovah didn’t look alarmed. Serious, perhaps. “We need to enact the ritual. It will stabilize the space here for a while. It will give us time to bring in experts.”

Truth wanted to point out that, by most standards, they were the experts. But maybe things were different in Siphios.

“This is a useful learning experience for everyone. Etenesh, Jember, did you see the difference in how you and Tommy reacted to the birds?”

“We raised wards and shields,” Etenesh said. “We wanted to secure the defense before worrying about the offense. Tommy disregarded defense in favor of speed and offense.” Merkovah nodded.

“An important difference in mindset. You two have, essentially, a fortress mentality. It’s by no means a bad mentality to have, but it is limiting. You are pinned in place and have given the initiative to your attackers. You would have to raise a very powerful defense, very quickly, if you had no support.”

Truth was suddenly, vividly reminded that Merkovah was a teacher in more than just name.

“Likewise, Mr. Wells’ strategy can be thought of as high risk, high return. He trusted his reflexes and his speed to carry him through the battle, deciding that the best defense was a good offense. Correctly, but only to a point. He would likewise be in very poor condition if he didn’t have support after the battle.”

Truth nodded. It was true. He knew Merkovah could look after himself, but he had no confidence in the cousins’ ability to kill the birds. Turtling up had never occurred to him, though it seemed obvious now. Aerial attackers should tell you to get under a roof.

“Now then. Mr. Wells, continue your patrol while we conduct the ritual. Consider all you have seen today. I believe it will aid in your comprehension of Incisive.”

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The ritual was almost anti-climactic. Normally he would have been very impressed by the illusory forms rising and descending, the incredible pressure brought by its holy patrons, and the general aesthetic pleasure one could get watching Jember and Etenesh work. The birds had ruined that, for today at least. As had the little drop of fluid.

His mind kept being pulled back to it. Something about it seemed to trigger… if not a memory, the sense of having once remembered something relevant. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like wondering if you had locked the door behind you when you left home in the morning.

Truth shook his head, trying to dispel the irritant. What did Merkovah mean about improving his understanding of Incisive? He mulled it over for most of the three-hour ride back to Boule.

They were in time for dinner in the Faculty Dining Room. There was no flan, but there was a small slice of cake. Truth felt quite confident in his evaluation of the cake as both dry and bland. If this was the standard of dessert here, he could understand their love of flan.

Merkovah called him over after dinner. They walked to the office he was borrowing for their stay here. “Young man,” Truth smiled brilliantly at the deceptively young-looking teacher. “Mr. Wells. Have you had any new thoughts about Incisive since this afternoon?”

“Many, but they keep going around in circles.” Truth admitted.

“The difficulty of spells is that, from our perspective, they often defy logic. You have to understand the unique thinking of the creator, be they angels or demons. Or human, but we so often design our spells on what we learn from angels and demons.” Merkovah added softly.

“Teacher, forgive me if I am asking something rude, but… are there any spells that come directly from God?”

Merkovah sighed deeply, looking a little sad. “Not in the sense that you mean, no. There was a time, long, long ago, when God would hear the prayers of the faithful and, on occasion, answer them. This was not the manipulation of cosmic rays, you understand, but direct divine intervention.”

“So all heavenly or divine magic is, essentially, angel magic?”

“You may think of it as such. The angels insist they get their power and authority from their service to God, but… well. Suffice to say it appears to be more complicated than that.”

Truth nodded. In his admittedly limited experience, things were always more complicated than they first appeared.

“Back to Incisive- You fight the same way its creator thinks. Keep that in mind, and demonstrate what you have learned so far.”

Truth did, and he still had a long way to go. Still, it was nice to feel tangible progress after a very tiring day. Etenesh and Jember were watching the Pitz in a common room. They invited him to watch with them, and he did. The game was still very silly, but every now and then, Etenesh would smile at him, and Jember would laugh at something he said, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

The next morning, as Merkovah had no need for them, Truth, Jember, and Etenesh set off to tend to their own projects. Truth was rapidly learning as much as he could about possession and then once again turning to the question of baptism. Finally, he worked on the puzzle that was Incisive.

Why, exactly, should it matter that he fought like Botis thought? The geometry of a spell form wouldn’t change because of his combat philosophy. The thought led Truth back to the fundamentals of spell construction- the intent of the mage, then the sacrificial energy (usually your own, from your own apertures) that stirred the cosmic rays into acting as the geometries of the spell form required.

Which linked back to intent, didn’t it? The mage required something of the world and, by an act of focused will, made it happen. The energy, both in his apertures and filling the world around him, were means to an end. He wanted something cut- sword or spell; both were means to that end.

It felt odd, picking his way through his thoughts like this. A sort of stretching feeling. His mind wasn’t used to this kind of exercise, this sort of analytical reasoning. Taking what was known and deducing a hypothesis. Not that he had the language to describe what he was doing. Nobody had ever thought it a useful skill for him to have.

Truth’s mind kept wanting to wander away to other things, but he knew he was on the trail of something. He pushed himself to stay focused- he didn’t want to lose the scent. Intent. He felt like he had been struggling to memorize the complicated spell forms and the various invocations needed to stir the magic to life. But what if he used the intent to guide him in remembering all that?

He stood quickly, stepping away from the desk. Truth tried to imagine deploying Incisive in combat. What would he want to use first? It would depend on the situation, of course. This meant that the first thing he should draw on is the battle sense, the limited foreknowledge the spell granted. And he should do it fast.

Truth quickly tried to summon the spell form, already letting his mind move on to the next action. Armor, most likely, then putting a killing edge on his blade. Cutting to the heart of things. Incisive.

The spell never formed, not even rising to the level where it could be said to collapse partway. But he felt something stirring. It was very rough, a long, long way from being usable. But there was a definite feeling of progress. That this was how the spell was intended to work. Not a carefully planned series of moves, but fast, brutal, and to the point. Foreknowledge, yes, but only as far as the problem at hand.

Truth smiled slightly. That would be quite enough for him. And after a full, satisfying day, he went to bed.

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That night, as Truth lay sleeping-

The part-time philosopher and full-time bon vivant was sitting slouched on a bench, head lolled back, unfiltered cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. The scent of a woman’s perfume lingered on him, dancing with the rough tobacco smell. One of his lovers lived near the boardwalk, and he had obviously just left. Truth sat down next to him, offering a hunk of the bread he just bought. “Franc for your thoughts?”

“If they are only worth that, I am ruined.” The man managed to chuckle around his cigarette. It appeared to be almost surgically attached to his lower lip.

“In this absurd world you tell me about, I may be overpaying.”

“You have no true understanding of absurdity, my friend. We are absurd. The world is absurd. But the true absurdity lies between man and the world. Our desire for connection and meaning in a meaningless existence.”

Truth shrugged. The philosopher snorted at that. Then he tore off a hunk of bread with his teeth. It was still warm from the bakery.

“Tell me, Truth. If the world is absurd, and life is absurd, why do you live on? Beyond the force of habit and your body’s reluctance to change, why do you choose to keep going?”

Truth sighed and tore himself a piece of the bread. “Is the bread tasty?”

“Yes.”

“Was your girl sweet?”

“Hah. Yes. The pleasures of the flesh remain just that. But this is mere philosophical suicide, a refusal to struggle with the pressing question of existence in the face of a pointless existence. You might as well go to church!”

“If the world is absurd, then find absurd reasons for living.” Truth shrugged and grinned.

The philosopher considered that for a moment. “Not the worst idea I’ve heard.”

“Going back to Maria’s to test it out?”

“Obviously.”