The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

Xipuatl looked at Mirian, then eloquently said, “Wait… what?” Then his face turned to disbelief. “Wait, are you sure you saw your soul? The first time?”

“Yeah,” Mirian said. “I could see my aura on the outside and it was like distant weather moving across the sky, and my soul was like lava that was swirling around like it was being blended, sort of like when you make tzatziki sauce and you’re stirring really fast, except since it’s all through your body it’s more like if your circulatory system was made of the tzatziki and your heart was a blend spell.”

She frowned.

Xipuatl frowned.

He said, “I wouldn’t quite describe the ephemeral majesty of the soul that way,” at the same time Mirian said, “Gods that’s my worst metaphor yet, I’m so sorry.”

Then Xipuatl went back to, “But you actually… saw it?”

“I sure think so. Only… there was something there. Like a hole in it, except not a hole. I couldn’t see it, but it was like something was displacing my soul and it had to go around. Like—” She stopped herself before she said like the tzatziki sauce going around an invisible stir stick because there just had to be a better way.

“Have you been… cursed?”

“Loads of times. One time at preparatory school, another girl thought I was spreading rumors about her and called me a—oh, wait, you mean like a necromancer’s curse? Gods no. I think I’d remember that.” She paused. “Can you examine my soul to see?”

“That’s not my expertise, unfortunately. If you were a plant I could. Do you feel ill?”

“No, I feel fine. It wasn’t hurting me or anything. At least, I don’t think so.”

“That’s good, because I can’t fix curses. It’s not… soul magic is just as broad as arcane magic. Moreso, even. This is the other reason I need more people. If I’m to fill in the theoretical gaps, I need people who can look beyond my piece of the picture. Speaking of which… you brought your abacus?”

“Of course,” Mirian said, handing the jade statue back.

Xipuatl opened the door and led them to his study room. The room contained three entire shelves of books and scrolls, and a large ornate desk carved with the same forms and figures as the artwork in the apartment.

His theoretical framework was, to put it lightly, amateurish. That made sense; he was still a student. It was clear that he was taking the research seriously, though. The scrolls and books he’d accumulated were all full of hard numbers from arcane research. Several of them appeared to be recent publications from the wizards in Torrian Tower.

Mirian spent nearly an hour looking over his math and pointing out errors when she found them.

“So what’s next?” she finally asked, as the hour grew late.

“Years of work. Maybe decades,” he said. “The Tlaxhuaco have never seen reason to quantify the runic system or find conversion ratios. Nor have the Luminates, at least as far as I can tell in the research I’ve done.”

“The energies must be fundamentally different, if the catalysts required to access them are different.”

“Different, yes, but there has to be a transformative equation that describes it. How else does the soul produce auric mana?”

“That assumes it does. I don’t think the scholarship quite agrees on that. It’s the leading hypothesis, since ambient mana and auric mana seem to repel each other, but….”

Xipuatl sighed. “That’s the other problem. If the other fields were actually solved, this would be so much easier. Also, I don’t think looking into the auras and souls of people will be the easiest, since people are so messy and inconsistent. Sure, they can give you subjective input, but even a practiced arcanist will never output perfectly consistent energy levels. My first measurements have been plants.”

“You built something already! May I see?”

“I suppose so. You’ve seen this much.” The device was in another room, this one full of artificer’s tools. The whole setup made Mirian jealous—she would have loved to have her own personal crafting room. Xipuatl removed a cloth that was covering a large lumpy object on one of the tables.

The device resembled a tree stump, with densely packed wooden rods covered in symbols forming a circle around a mess of tangled wires, both silver and gold. Mirian studied the symbols carved into it. Unlike glyphs, which shimmered faintly with bright color pairs, the runes glowed a steady silver, like moonlight.

“What’s it do?” she asked.

“That’s the problem. It doesn’t do anything.”

“Ah. Well what’s it supposed to do?”

“It’s supposed to measure a soul-spell. I can’t even begin to diagnose the problem, though. And the problem is—no one else can either. Tlaxhuaco hasn’t applied modern artifice to their magic, and no one is allowed to study it here.”

“Unless you teach me,” Mirian said.

“Which,” Xipuatl said with a sigh, “I am in no way qualified to do. And probably shouldn’t do. But…”

Mirian understood. If he was right, it really was a theory that might revolutionize the way magic was understood. She still wasn’t convinced he was right, but what did she have to lose by exploring it? “I’m committed,” she said. “And when I commit to something, I don’t back down.” He didn’t know just how much time he did have to teach her.

***

She spent the rest of the cycle on the tasks she had set for herself. Xipuatl refused to teach her how the celestial runes were made, so she spent time memorizing their form and function, continuing to dig through his equations and statistics, and meditating. Magic had never felt easy to her, but for some reason, this kind did. The more she examined her soul, the more she was convinced she was right; something had burrowed into it. It was concerning, but then again, wouldn’t that disappear when the loop reset again?

Illusion Spells began to bore her. So had Artifice Design. She would need to keep the Physics and Spell Engine classes to continue her research with Xipuatl in the next cycle, but too little of her time was spent getting Torres to tell her design improvements and tips. That freed up two classes in the next cycle. Combat Magic, she would keep. Nothing could replace rote practice.

On the 21st of Solen, she walked to the spellward towers. The barrier was intact. The next evening, it was gone. Again, she wasn’t sure if it was sabotage or the arcane eruptions south of them, but the timing lined up with the latter. She’d narrow down the window further next cycle.

The day before the Akanan attack, she spent the evening with Selesia. It would have been an overstatement to say her Eskanar was getting good, but like soul magic, she seemed to have a natural knack for languages. She could say a few simple phrases, and understand most of what Selesia said when she switched to Eskanar.

Together, they walked to Torrviol Lake. The setting sun scattered sparkling flames across the waters, and when they turned, the town was silhouetted by the red horizon, the sky bright with orange-brushed clouds hanging over the distant hills.

“It’s beautiful,” Selesia said, smiling.

“It is,” Mirian said, though when she saw the majestic Torrian Tower back-lit by the dusk, all she could think was, it shatters tomorrow. The city is razed, and you die with it. And I can’t stop it. It still seemed impossible—and yet, she had to find a way.

They ate dinner together, and held hands as they walked back to the dorms. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mirian said again. The lie tasted just as bitter as the last time, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell her the horrible truth.

***

This time, Mirian set up the crates she’d need to climb up the latrine shaft into Bainrose a day early and stabilized the crates with shape wood and the ground with shape stone. This meant she was watching from the parapet when Torrian Tower was bisected. The cascading explosions illuminated the approaching army. Mirian watched, noting how and where formations moved. This time, she left the spy atop the southeast tower alive. She wanted to see what he did.

In the northern forest, she could see faint flashes of light and movement around a certain area. Probably near another entrance to the northern catacombs. It was too dark and distant to pinpoint the entrance. She hoped bog lions ate them all.

Mirian continued to watch the scene unfold, creeping anger building as she watched the soldiers brutalize and murder the people they found. To their credit, the Torrviol guard that hadn’t fled with their captain tried to rally east of the plaza, but was quickly annihilated by attacks from wands and rifles on three sides. The Baracuel military was thrown back just as quickly, and that was before the airships arrived. She watched them, the two looming dreadnoughts, as they drifted over Torrviol. Soon enough, the colossal hulls were just above them. Two volleys erupted from their broadside towards the trains. The Baracuel Army wasn’t even going to get a chance to unload most of their soldiers and weapons.

Mirian was watching for the spy to give some sort of signal towards the soldiers on the ground. When he raised his wand though, it was toward the sky.

He signals the airships, she realized. Shortly after, long ropes came down from the side of the north-most airship that was hovering over Bainrose. The ship to the south was turning counterclockwise to aim another broadside southwest. Mirian opened up her spellbook and crouched down. What she was about to do was stupid, and she wasn’t even sure what she hoped to accomplish—but there was no way she could pass up this opportunity.

She’d seen enough Akanan soldiers at this point to have a good idea of their uniforms. She cast major disguise, then stood by one of the ropes. Sure enough, soldiers began to rappel downward, one on each of the dozen ropes, lining the entire battlement. It was clear that Bainrose Castle was the most critical objective they were to seize. Interesting that they would rather destroy Torrian Tower than plunder its research and technology.

Mentally, Mirian rehearsed what she would say in Eskanar, trying to remember the correct conjugation of the verb.

Mirian took a deep breath as one of the soldiers landed by her, rifle slung over his shoulder. “Hello,” she said, which sent the soldier into a cursing fit, his words too fast for her to pick up more than that.

“East battlement. You’re supposed to stand on the east battlement you idiot!” he finally shouted.

“Sorry. I have an important message to deliver. Concerns Bainrose. Can it…?” she asked, gesturing at the rope. She could only imply ‘can it take me up to the airship?’ because she didn’t have the vocabulary to actually say it. Her accent was horrible, and her disguise spell barely acceptable, but the gunfire and the faint light was covering for her inadequacies.

The soldier handed her the rope hesitantly, looking her up and down.

She took it, then stood awkwardly.

“Three tugs,” he said finally.

“Thank you,” she said, and forced a smile. She pulled on the rope, then hung on for dear life.

The ascent was incredible, and she felt her heart flutter with exhilaration. It was like she was flying. The air rushed by her, and Torrviol shrunk until the people were just tiny dots and the flashes and gunfire were soft and distant.

She found herself dangling in the air, looking at a spell-engine powered winch being operated by two surprised soldiers. The winch crane arm retracted, bringing her to the deck, where she gratefully let go and clutched the side rail.

“What’s the meaning of this?” asked one.

“Important message about Bainrose,” Mirian said.

“You’re not Third Company. Who are you with?”

She hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Spies,” she said. Then, “Two.”

“Two? What? You mean Second Infiltration Corps?”

Infiltration, that’s the word, Mirian remembered. “Yes.”

That was the wrong answer. The first soldier pulled out a pistol, and the second a wand. They both leveled them.

“Second’s not here, they’re down in Palendurio. Who are you really?”

One of the commanding officers shouted something, though the wind whipping by them made it hard to hear and Mirian couldn’t understand.

“Possible enemy spy, sir,” the first soldier responded. To her he said, “What’s the code phrase?”

Mirian threw her satchel at him, aiming to knock the gun aside, and drew her minor lightning wand. She dove to the side as the second soldier sent a cone of flame her way, letting the illusion spell drop to save mana. As she stood, she sent a wild bolt of lightning his way, then sprinted down the deck.

The top of the airship was like a town in miniature. Wood structures lined the center of it, with narrow alleys that let people easily pass from port to starboard. Along the deck were the winches that had dropped the assault team, and further along, an assortment of medium gun turrets on steel platforms that could swivel. Mirian only got a glance at all of it before she ducked between one of those thin passages between the structures. There was a lot of shouting in Eskanar behind her, then a gunshot, but she heard the bullet ping! off something that, importantly, wasn’t her.

Adrenaline had her sprinting hard. She emerged to the other side of the ship, but even with the cacophony of the ships guns below decks and the harsh winds above, the commotion attracted looks. It took people a moment to react. One man was looking down at the battlefield with binoculars, and only after he lowered them at stared did he realize what he was staring at. By the time he reached to grab her arm, she was already five feet past him. Another was bringing up a set of signal flags that seemed to be meant for the other ship and just turned and watched her go by. She heard another shot go off. This time, the bullet was so close to her head she heard the damn thing whistle by. She skidded to a stop and careened down another of the passages, this one between two rooms that were both full of wires and arcane consoles.

She heard the phrase “split up!” shouted, so that was probably the last time that trick would work.

As she rounded the corner, she saw a steel ladder to her right and took it, which led to a series of catwalks that linked the second story of the wooden superstructures on the ship. Again, she saw strange devices covered in glyphs and wires, and shocked faces who seemed totally unprepared for an idiot student from Torrviol to be sprinting past them.

There was a large structure at the end of the walkways, with large windows looking out at the rest of the ship. Mirian knew basically nothing about ships, floating or flying, but it seemed to her a larger building was easier to hide in. She burst in, then froze.

Obviously, this was not just some random storage shed. Dozens of soldiers worked various magical devices, hitting glyphs, adjusting dials, and pulling levers. Mirian hadn’t the slightest idea of what any of it did, but it was clear she’d just stumbled onto a major control center of the ship.

All these dozens of soldiers turned to face where the door had just slammed open.

Near the back, on an elevated platform was a woman dressed in a more ornate uniform than she’d seen. The jacket was embroidered with gold thread and five golden buttons across the breast. She wore a peaked cap with the double-headed eagle of Akana over her short blond and silver-streaked hair.

Mirian didn’t know a lot about the Akanan military, but even she could tell this was someone of high rank. Behind her, she heard the shouting of the crew that was pursuing her. They’d spread out across the catwalks, and she couldn’t see a way back. She realized she’d just reached the end of her line.

“Marshal Cearsia?” one of the men next to her asked. There were three of them, each wearing fancy peaked caps of their own. Two of them had recovered their composure, while the third, a younger man with brownish hair and a slight build, stared at her open mouthed, eyes wide as a fish.

This Marshal Cearsia reacted before she spoke. The spellbook chained to her belt took on a glow as it rose up in front of her, and the pages flipped open by themselves. Mirian found herself wrapped about in force chains before she could move, and the wand she was still carrying was torn from her grasp so that it skidded across the polished wooden floor. “Clearly, I must handle this because my subordinates cannot. Command staff, back to work.” Her voice was forceful and melodious. The Akanans at their stations went back to their work, ignoring Mirian.

Cearsia’s spellbook snapped shut, then gently floated to her side again. Mirian had heard of arcanists who could use telekinetic spells to manipulate their spellbooks with perfect mental dexterity. She’d seen Viridian do something similar that first cycle, but not on this level. The marshal was clearly not just an elite officer, but a master arcanist in her own right.

“We should interrogate her,” the wide-eyed man up on the platform blurted out.

Cearsia’s eyes snapped toward him and he took a step back. “I did not give you leave to speak.” She looked at the soldiers behind Mirian. “My subordinates will debrief you on this security breach. Remove this vermin. I have a war to win.”

“It won’t matter. The world ends in four days. I need your help stopping it.” Mirian knew she’d messed up at least a few of the conjugations, but the gist of the message was clear.

“I am not in the mood to hear these Baracueli traitors mangle my language. She flew up? Let her fly down.”

Mirian gulped, but the force chains still held her fast. As the soldiers dragged her out of the room, she said, “No one in Torrviol betrayed anyone!” she yelled in Friian. “You murder innocents! Five hells take you!”

She stopped shouting by the time she’d left the room. The soldiers gave her grim looks, and handled her like she was dangerous to touch, but they didn’t speak to her. When they tossed her over the side of the airship, she didn’t scream. She stayed silent as she plummeted back down towards Bainrose, back down to that gyre of death and fear—back down to Torrviol.

She met her death with eyes open.