The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

Anger bubbled up in Mirian as she looked at Priest Krier. Torrviol is threatened by attack, and this is how you spend your time? The acolytes with him stepped forward, torches still burning with white fire.

Mirian took a step back. “I’m not a heretic,” she said, trying to suppress her anger. “I’m just trying to save as many lives as I can.”

“You claim to be a new Prophet, but do not follow the—”

“No I don’t,” Mirian said, interrupting him, taking another step back.

Priest Krier’s eyes narrowed. “If you predict the future, then you claim Prophesy. Do you deny it?”

Mirian thought about trying to explain that she was only saying what had happened in previous loops, which was her past, but gave insight into the current future, but she didn’t think wordplay was going to save her. Instead, the anger in her erupted. “In past loops, I did come to you. You dismissed me! You did, holy one! And when you did, Torrviol burned. Do you know what happens if I stay silent? You die. All of you do! I’ve watched as the people of Torrviol are slaughtered like animals.”

She was shouting now, with such intensity that the acolytes approaching her had halted. Krier wanted a spectacle? She’d give him one. “Torrviol and its people stand on the brink of annihilation, and this is what you think is important? You’d rather try to dish out mob justice to someone trying to warn everyone than organize a defense?”

Priest Krier’s face grew grim. “You dare lecture me—you dare lecture me? It is clear you are a heretic, as only a heretic would speak to a priest like that.” His hand went to his chest.

Mirian’s eyes grew wide. Was he about to work soul magic? What divine spells did the Luminate Order even know? She had only ever heard of the healing magic they worked—but what if Xipuatl was right?

She felt a hand on her shoulder. A man from the crowd had stepped forward. “Holy one, I beg your forgiveness, but this is not how things are done in Torrviol. If you have criminal charges to levy, they are presented to the magistrate’s office.”

There were murmurs of assent from the people gathered. “She hasn’t tried to steal your congregation, holy one,” a woman carrying a basket of bread called out.

“You would stand by this heretic?” Priest Krier called out. His hand pressed tighter on his chest. Mirian couldn’t help but stare at that point. She felt her anticipation building.

“Follow the rule of law, priest,” an older man called out.

“He is following the highest law,” one of the acolytes said, eyes reflecting the white torchlight.

“Is that so?” the man standing by Mirian’s side said. “And what was Shiamagoth’s law?”

More murmurs echoed through the crowd. Everyone there knew it; they’d heard Priest Krier say it. Power is only righteous if it protects life.

The priest opened his mouth, then closed it.

“A wise priest once told me, ‘live like the prophets,’” one of the women said. Krier said it regularly in his sermons, Mirian knew.

The crowd had turned against him. Mirian could tell Krier knew by the way his face shifted. The anger that had been bubbling out now was veiled by a false smile. As a priest, he had a great deal of power, especially against anyone deemed unholy or heretical. Here, though, he had overstepped his authority, and everyone seemed to know it. “Then the magistrate will hear it, just as you have all heard it. And when the case is decided, I hope you all will reflect on the choices you made,” Krier said, voice calm, but tinged with venom.

He and his congregation turned back towards the temple. Not towards the magistrate’s office, Mirian noted. Maybe he would submit the charges later, but he likely didn’t want to walk through the crowd that had formed behind Mirian.

Mirian realized she was trembling. The anger had drained out of her and left only a bundle of frayed nerves. She didn’t even like presenting artifice projects in front of class. What in the hells was she doing yelling at a priest in the middle of the street? “Thanks,” she managed, to the man who had stepped forward first.

“The way I see it, you’re doing what you think is right. And from what I’ve heard, you have seen something. I’m sorry that a disciple of the cosmic wisdom has strayed into… well, you shouldn’t need to face down a mob. Not in a civilized town.”

She swallowed and nodded. “I’ll keep trying to do what’s right,” she said. She wasn’t sure what to do after that. So many people were staring at her. Mirian hurried along, muttering thanks to the crowd that had saved her.

As she stepped into the dining hall, Mirian realized that if she was going to stir the cauldron as much as she had here, she was going to make enemies. Some of them might not announce themselves so obviously, either. There was only a short time left, but it was still plenty of time for very unpleasant things to happen. If she was going to proceed, she needed to be with people she could trust.

***

She spent the rest of the day staying close to the western part of Torrviol where the militias were practicing. She moved back and forth between talking to some of the militia captains about what to expect from the Akanans and observing work in the crafting stations.

Watching Ingrid and Torres work was a treat. They’d clearly worked together before, and each knew the other well enough that they rarely bothered to talk. Torres would mark some part of the blueprint, and Ingrid would start sculpting the parts, while Torres worked on finishing the glyphwork on a previous piece. Torres’s enchantment work was amazing. She didn’t seem to mind Mirian asking her about her technique, so Mirian spent several hours seeing how she prepared surfaces with alchemical reagents, then used a modified mirror motion spell to scribe with precision.

Normally, artillery used cylinders of quartzite as a mana conduit, since pure quartz crystals large enough to fit the need were difficult to find, but Jei had apparently found time to help grow a corundum crystal. No jeweler would appreciate the arm-sized ruby column she’d made since it was pale and full of flaws, but it would give the artillery piece a hell of a punch.

Cassius had come up with another idea, which was to bury spellbombs along the arc where the Akanans would set up their artillery, and wanted to know where they would have the greatest effect. Professor Cassius looked at Mirian differently as she pointed out where she’d seen the guns light up in the tree line. It wasn’t quite with respect, but maybe it was approaching it.

Sixthday, the final zephyr falcon Mayor Ethwarn had sent out returned, streaking in from the north in the late morning.

The Akanans had landed on the Baracuel coast, and seized two of the villages there. Blood spatter had decorated the scroll case the communique had come in; the letter had only just made it out.

The mood in Torrviol took on an even more desperate tenor. Caravans of townsfolk and scared students began making their way south, even though the myrvite infestation south hadn’t been cleared. It was doubtful they would fare well. Mayor Ethwarn deputized a committee to organize the official evacuation efforts. Supplies piled up by the tracks, while the committee started issuing special passes that would let people board the first train out when it arrived. Children and their parents had first priority, and a lottery system would decide who was next. Rumors quickly started that some of the richer merchants and students were willing to buy these passes, which led to Mayor Ethwarn issuing a strong declaration in the forum that such behavior would not be tolerated.

With the invasion of Baracuel now confirmed, though, people didn’t just look to run. Militia recruitment swelled. The makeshift training grounds filled with people looking to practice spells. Unfortunately, firearms and ammunition were in short supply, and the gunsmiths in Torrviol could only work so fast.

The mayor had also appointed a council of captains to the head of the militia, which included Cassius. That evening, they invited Mirian to attend. The council met in one of the militia captain’s houses, a very nice place at the edge of town. His two servants brought platters of fancy appetizers, while a music box played a soft symphony. Mirian was more interested in the complex glyph sequences in the music box than the food, and studied it while she waited for the meeting to begin.

There were five captains, though four of them were merchants. They’d been appointed for their expertise in keeping inventories and moving goods, as well as their wealth and connections. Their knowledge of war was more dubious, so the discussion of tactics fell to Professor Cassius and Captain Moliner, a wiry looking woman who managed to frown even more often than Cassius. She kept her black hair short, and her pale blue eyes kept darting around the room like she was scanning for a mouse to snatch up. Her voice, though, was calm and collected.

“Bainrose Castle will be the command center. We’re preparing positions on the hope that the Fort Aegrimere Division makes it in time to hold them, otherwise, we’ll only have small arms fire and spells to hold it. How are the strongpoints coming along?”

“Steadily,” one of the businessmen said. “The novices are diligent workers, but slow. We don’t have nearly enough bricks or stone to do a proper job. Two of the brickmakers fled town, but their apprentices are running the kilns now.”

Mirian’s eyes were drawn to the map on the table. Several glass beads seemed to represent the strongpoints in question. They were fanned out to the south and east of Bainrose, with one by the plaza and another by the forum. “Have you accounted for the underground?” she asked.

“The underground?” another of the businessmen asked.

“The spies mapped it out. Squads of Akanans will be coming through the northern catacombs directly into the library basement. One of them is the passage I showed you, Cassius. The other is nearby, but I haven’t mapped it. I don’t know if they’ll try to have soldiers rappel down from the airship if they haven’t gotten a signal from the castle, but we should be ready for it. Another group seems to make its way through the underground and pops out near the forum, behind the lines. Griffin Hall has one passage, but I don’t know where the second is. The maps are restricted.”

Cassius looked at Mirian, again seeming to reassess her. “Several of my colleagues know where those maps are. I’ll get in touch with them. We’ll need to put some blocking squads at the entrances. The militias should be able to handle that. Build barricades out of furniture, then strongly discourage anyone from tampering with them.”

Mirian examined the map for anything else they’d missed, replaying the movement of the soldiers through the fields and streets. She could hear the screaming in her mind, broken up only by the sound of artillery. “Torrian Tower can only be used at the lower levels. The top part gets blown up, and falls here,” she said, pointing. “We might disrupt their artillery enough to save the tower, but we might not. And if the artillery doesn’t do it, the airships might.”

Cassius leaned back in his chair, puzzled. “A simple artillery shot shouldn’t be able to take down Torrian Tower. The only thing with stronger construction is Bainrose, and that’s only because the sheer quantity of stone. Do they have a… special weapon, perhaps? None of the Akanan shells I’m familiar with should be able to do that.”

“I’m not sure,” Mirian admitted.

Captain Moliner talked about deployment next. “Untrained citizens will do best on the defensive. The fallback positions will be here and here, which will still keep a corridor open to Bainrose for supplies and reinforcement. If we can hold this line between the castle and the lake and keep the station out of direct enemy fire, we stand the best chance of lasting until reinforcements can be brought up from the south. We’ll need to hold five days at least.”

Mirian felt her mouth go dry, and something must have shown on her face, because one of the businessmen said, “Is something wrong?”

She forced a smile. “No,” she lied.

“She doesn’t think we can do it,” another said, misinterpreting Mirian’s apprehension.

“She’s right,” Moliner said. “Even with all this preparation, we’ll be outnumbered, outgunned, and underprepared. You can count the number of people who have seen combat in this town on one hand that’s missing fingers. I can’t speak to what will happen to unit cohesion or morale when these youngsters start having flame-burst shells landing near them. It might hold. It might break immediately.”

The third businessman was grinding his teeth, looking at the map. “Why don’t we simply evacuate the town? Why even try to hold, if it’s so hopeless?”

Moliner replied. “There’s simply no way to get everyone out on the trains, or the roads. Not in time. We can continue to evacuate people if we hold long enough. That will take a lot of time. We only have the one route.”

The man was still looking dejectedly at the map. “It still doesn’t make any damn sense. It’s Akana Praediar. Why would they do this?”

Mirian had no answer for him.

As silence fell over the room, the mood grew dark. Mirian wanted to say something, like don’t worry, you’ll all get another chance to get it right, you just won’t remember, but that wasn’t likely to help. They conceived themselves as people in this current moment, with lives that would either continue or end; that some parallel version of themselves with only a month of memories’ difference would survive would do nothing to lighten the shadow of doom they were living under. She felt she should say something, but was at a loss as to what might help.

She was saved by a woman bursting into the room, the orange and white cloth tied around her arm indicating her as another of the militia members. “The repair car just arrived at the station. The tracks are fixed, the train is on its way! They’re coming!”