Miles up the coast, a minute or two after Enora unloaded a supernova of mana into Ivrayn Larken’s head, Toben looked up from the tiller and back toward Mistelein. The shift in the ambient mana was like a breeze moving across the boat, and Jack and Layla stopped their busying and looked back toward the boatman. He held up a hand and waited another minute, then breathed a sigh of relief.

“What was that?” Layla walked to the rear of the boat.

“Felt like a… ripple, maybe, in the local mana?” Jack offered.

“Indeed it was. One I know well,” the big man smiled.

“How much mana do you have to burn to cause something like that?” Layla asked him.

“A great deal. Higher weave combination techniques expend such an amount,” he smiled again.

“How do you measure it?” Rory joined them.

“The empire’s arcanotech engineers call them ‘motes’,” the big man said.

“A mote is the unit of measurement for mana?” Layla sat down next to the rudder.

“It is the smallest amount into which the flow of mana can be divided,” he replied.

“So, how many motes was that?” Jack cut in.

“Nearly two hundred,” he grinned.

Jack and Rory whistled at the same time. Layla grinned broadly.

“Who in Mistelein has two hundred mana to blow on one attack?” she quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Enora,” the giant smiled slyly.

“Your wife!?” Rory gaped.

“She is the Speaker. The title must be held by the strongest warrior in the town,” he smiled serenely.

“So, what did she do that cost two hundred mana?” Layla dragged the conversation back on point.

“A hidden technique she perfected many years ago. A combination of a sixth weave fist art, a spell of the fifth weave, and soulbrand arts of various weaves. She calls it Laeli’s Hammer. It is… an impressive technique. I have never seen it fail to end a battle,” his expression was suddenly serious, memories flitting across his expression.

“Laeli’s Hammer?” Jack asked.

“Laeli is the third moon, the crimson sister, lady of shields and battles,” Toben replied.

“What does it do?” Layla pressed him.

“It is a supernaturally swift strike that damages the soul and transfers the energy of the blow into motion, as though the opponent were flung from a catapult. The two are a fearsome pairing. Those who have the strength of spirit to resist the death stroke are often too weak of body to survive the impact, and the opposite is often true of those who could survive the ferocity of the blow. It is the culmination of her entire art, and to my knowledge, unique among all of Ayrgard,” his face was a complicated mix of pride and some other emotion. “Its existence is also a great secret. Few who see the technique live to relate its power.”

“Well, my lips are sealed,” Layla grinned. “How hard is it to make those… hidden techniques?”

“It is a great undertaking. Often, they emerge at random from mighty warriors that strive to mix the elements of their fighting styles, but those of lower weaves can be reliably reproduced with guidance and training. Still others are quirks and accidents of Fate that come to warriors in the heat of battle, in dreams, or in the meditations that accompany ascetic retreat,” the boatman answered.

“What’s the benefit?” Rory asked.

“It becomes quicker and more efficient to initiate the combined abilities, reducing stamina and mana expenditure. The entire technique can be triggered in an instant rather than a set of katas or reinforcing of the aura,” he replied.

Layla: It’s a combo power. Like being able to cast a few spells and martial arts all at the same time.

Rory: That would be daft. Being able to layer up all my stealth abilities at the same time instead of taking ten seconds to set up the strike.

Jack: Think of what Erin could do if she could throw all her buffs on and smash something all at the same time.

They shared a look at that thought, and Toben shook his head at their strange behavior. He had guessed by now that they could communicate without words, but it wasn’t for him to question the Chosen’s private thoughts.

“So, are you limited how many you can make?” Layla asked him.

“A technique takes the place of spell or art, as though you learned a new ability,” he answered.

“Oh, well that’s neat,” she grinned.

“Hidden arts are a great increase in a warrior’s strength. They allow for an unleashing of all one’s strongest abilities in an instant. The cost is often so great that the technique cannot be repeated. Such powers have the most effect when an enemy cannot anticipate their existence,” he warned.

“Fair enough,” Rory replied.

At the prow, Erin’s gentle snore was interrupted by a half-mumbled, half-shouted “Biscuits!”

“I think we should wake the beast and feed her,” Jack smiled.

“Finish dinner before you let that bear out of the bag,” Layla snarked.

The men chuckled, but Jack began laying out dinner all the same. Toben’s vessel had a small grill halfway between the tiller and the mast, more or less a large steel pan runed to produce heat when infused with a little mana. Jack fueled the runework and pan-fried some diced starchy tubers in butter to go with the dried meat and slices of sweet fruit for dessert.

Erin shot upright, eyes still closed, and mumble-grunted, “Bacon.”

She swayed a moment, then rubbed her eyes and blinked a few times.

“I smell breakfast, Jack,” she mumbled.

“Dinner, hon. Homefries, jerky, fruit. You seem hungry,” he laughed.

Erin grabbed a rope at the prow and hauled herself upright, then wobbled her way to sit next to the grill. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and pointed a finger at her waiting maw. Jack took the hint and stabbed a forkful of potatoes then fed it to her. She sighed appreciatively and mumbled thanks while still chewing.

“Hey, Toben, how long do you think to Orenmar?” Layla asked around a mouthful of fruit.

“We will arrive in the morning. The wind is passable, and steady,” he replied. “You should all sleep as much as able before we arrive. The walk to the Reyvan pass is a worthy trek.”

“We can’t thank you enough for all your help, big guy,” Jack smiled at him as he handed over a bowl.

The giant stuck the tiller under his arm and dug into the dinner. He ate with gusto, then slapped his stomach and laughed.

“In truth, Jackson, you are a better cook than my pearl. But if you tell her I said so, I will call you a liar and a scoundrel,” he chuckled.

“I’m sorry Toben, what did you say? I didn’t hear any of that over the thought of your wife punching me over the horizon,” was Jack’s deadpan reply.

For a moment, the only sound on the catamaran was the flapping of the sails and lapping of waves.

Then Toben and Layla began to laugh, Layla slowly falling off her chair. Rory joined them, then Erin began to giggle. Jack’s dry expression finally broke and he began to chuckle as well.

After that, they finished off the food and spent another hour talking about life, the places Toben had been, what life was like for the people of the Empire, and if things were so simple at the edge of its territory, why its leadership was so fucked off.

The answer seemed to be that the Brothers’ Age of Wonder had spread across the land centuries ago, but a great beast had arisen and all but destroyed the outer edges of the Empire. This creature, whose name had been lost to time, had ravaged the cities and towns of Alabastris until it reached one called Imril, less than a hundred miles from the capital. A dozen heroes of the Legion and a thousand men met it there, armed with a significant portion of the Empire’s arcanotech machines.

The Brothers unleashed the Doom upon Imril. Four of them.

“They nuked the city?” Layla gaped at the boatman.

“With their own men in the city?” Jack’s disgust was palpable.

“You must understand. The beast had killed tens of thousands. Crushed cities until no brick lay upon another. Swallowed whole every man, woman, and child across half the Empire. One of the Brothers was slain early, perhaps even when the beast first struck. The second was killed fighting the creature just before the end. I have heard whispers that the beast was not even slain by the Doom of Imril. It was simply wounded, and slunk off to sleep away the injury and find easier prey. The last Brother pulled everything back to the capital. There he built the catacombs beneath the city and retreated into hiding, producing ever more fearsome engines of war, until he… it is said he perished there,” Toben looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the lie.

“It’s okay, big guy. We know he’s not dead,” Layla offered.

The giant’s head snapped around, his eyes hard.

“I said no such thing,” he started.

“The priest in Isenmar told us. Well, us and that inquisition guy, before he blew us up with one of those nukey-thingies,” Layla grinned.

“So the inquisition did capture you before you came to me,” he sighed. “How did you escape?”

“I mean, we didn’t. I just said, we died,” she smiled again.

“The nightfather resurrected you?” he looked away. “The tales are true. The Chosen are immortal. But then how did the beast slay the two fallen Brothers?” he whispered the question.

“Maybe some of the other Chosen figured out a way to kill each other?” Rory offered.

“Hell, maybe it’s an innate thing. Maybe if one of us goes hogwild and kills another, our ticket is punched. No take-backs,” Jack mused.

The discussion more or less ended there, the revelation of secrets having weighed the conversation down enough that none of them cared to pick it back up. They bedded down and did their best to fall asleep. They had little luck before the first rays of dawn lit the sky.

-----

While Toben told the tale of the Doom of Imril, many miles away, a pale slip of a girl paused her gruesome work and inhaled the salted sea air with a nose and mouth smeared with brilliant red arterial blood. She kneeled over a dismembered corpse in the middle of a market mostly populated with tanned humans and sleek-skinned reptilian beastfolk. They walked past her as she plucked the heart from the body beneath her, paying no heed to the grisly scene, as if she and her victim weren’t even present.

She took a neat bite from the still-warm heart, her teeth shearing effortlessly through the tough muscle, as though it were the most tender filet mignon. Her arms and hands twisted and flowed with ghostly white ripples, then crawling flesh poured over the body, much like a white blood cell engulfing an invader. When she was finished, the corpse was gone and scarcely a drop of blood remained in the street.

She sniffed the air again, “There you are, mis queridas. Ya voy.”