Kastori Restorations (The Kastori Chronicles Book 4) (2 page)

The magicologist said nothing.

“I repeat, tell me your name.”

“Why should I? Your leader has emasculated you and prevented you from—”

A swift slamming of his head into the ground changed his mind. Cyrus shot Celeste a commanding look before she said anything.

“Phylus,” the magicologist said, followed by some hacking.

“Phylus, I’m Cyrus, so glad we could meet this way,” Cyrus said with dripping sarcasm. “Here’s the deal. You are not going back to Nubia. You are not going to talk to Typhos again. But what you can do is help us out. You can tell us what Typhos is doing and help out our Kastori instead of being an ugly magicologist.”

“And if I don’t?” Phylus said.

“My sister won’t be here forever to protect you.”

“Cyrus,” Celeste said, and Cyrus did not turn to face her, but he did ease his grip on the magicologist.

In fact, Cyrus stood up, allowing Phylus to finally breathe. But the young Orthran removed his sword and held it to the magicologist’s chest, lest the enemy try to escape. His hand remained sure, even as he felt the discomfort from his sister. Behind him, Crystil had her gun cocked with equal aplomb.

“Now, Phylus, since I’m sure you’re much more comfortable and able to think rationally, let’s begin our little evening chat. How much has Typhos recovered?”

“Enough to defeat all of you,” Phylus said. “It’s only a matter of time before he has the strength to assume the planet’s power. And when he does that, whatever chance you had of killing him disappears.”

“We need to make a move quickly, Cyrus. We need to head there and stop him.”

Cyrus turned to his sister with pursed lips. He could still see the scar where Typhos’ sword had pierced through her chest, and it reminded him every minute of his failure to help in battle. He could not possibly see how just a couple of weeks later she would feel comfortable facing off against him again.
And that’s not even accounting for the new dynamics.

“Let’s get more information out of him,”
Cyrus messaged.
“He can tell us.”

“Don’t do anything stupid. I’m going back to Anatolus to gather strength. Let Dad talk to him too if you bring him to the prison in the palace.”

Celeste closed her eyes and vanished seconds later. Crystil came closer, assuming the position Celeste had.

“Aww, you’re free now. You won’t be—”

But the hard, artificial foot of Crystil stomped the arm of Phylus, producing both a sickening crunch and a loud scream.

“We won’t be held back,” Cyrus sneered. “But you need to start talking, or it’ll get worse. How many magicologists does Typhos have around him?”

“You!” Phylus screamed, but as Crystil twisted her foot, he answered. “There’s about a dozen of them. A few have died from exhaustion, though, and the rest aren’t strong.”

“And how long until he’s actually ready?”

“I don’t know!” Phylus cried, a genuine enough response that Cyrus motioned for Crystil to stop. “He seems powerful enough that he could go, but he’s said he needs to be as strong as possible.”

“And why did he send you here?”

Phylus groaned. Cyrus and Crystil waited patiently, though with a time limit in their heads, for the magicologist to speak.

“I—”

But suddenly, Phylus violently shook. His eyes rolled back, and his body trembled.

“Crystil?”

“I don’t—”

But then a disturbing laugh came from Phylus as his body settled down and his mouth formed a wicked smile. It was not the laugh of Phylus.

“You want to know why I sent him?” the distorted voice of Typhos said. “I wanted to pull you guys out of hiding so I could see what you are doing. You spend most of your days training and meditating at the peak, making it difficult to read you. But thankfully, because you care so much about pathetic traitors and for doing things in some self-righteous way, you came out of hiding. I thank you for that, Cyrus.”

Cyrus grimaced as he tightened his grip on the sword, more to take comfort in having power over something than in preparation for an attack.
If he’s able to do this… what else is he going to do?

“I know now that you are not recovered from our last battle, and that I will now have an opening to take the power of Nubia. I thank you.”

Suddenly, the eyes of Phylus rolled forward, and a terrifying smirk appeared.

“And when I see you again,” he said, now in the voice of Phylus but in the tone of Typhos. “I will kill you. And I will finish the job on your sister and your woman.”

Cyrus’ rage boiled over at the memory of Celeste nearly dying. He let out a loud cry as he slammed the blade through the chest of Phylus, withdrawing it in a fury and slamming it to the ground. Phylus’ smirk never left, and he collapsed to the ground with an unchanging facial expression.

“Typhos!” Cyrus screamed, but he got no response.

“Cyrus,” Crystil said, her hand firm on his arm. “He’s taunting you. You know this. For all we know, he could be playing mind games on you.”

“Typhos always plays mind games,” he said.

Seconds later, Celeste appeared with a look of horror on her face.

“What have you done?” she asked. “I told you not to kill him!”

“Well you probably didn’t tell him not to become possessed by Typhos and then taunt me with the image of your death,” Cyrus said.

Celeste shook her head, a clear way of saying, “Not good enough.”

“You know Typhos is going to play all sorts of games with us, Cyrus. For all I know, he could still be playing an incredibly elaborate one right now, and I could wake up in his prison cell, ready for death. This is the battle we face now. This is why we’re treating this as the last battle. But we don’t compromise on our ethics just because the enemy has none.”

“We do if it defeats the enemy,” Cyrus said. “You want to play by ethics? You go ahead. And when Typhos does what he said he’ll do…”

Just saying it enraged Cyrus further. He swore under his breath before continuing.

“Thank your ethics then. I’d rather live burning the world to defeat Typhos than dying with my self-respect intact.”

Celeste looked profoundly hurt, but Cyrus didn’t care.

“We’ll… we need to talk about this, but we will handle it later,” Celeste said. “Let’s reconvene on the peak of Mount Ardor. We need to decide our next steps immediately.”

Cyrus agreed, and the three came together, locking hands. Celeste teleported them all moments later, bringing the three to the steps of Mount Ardor’s highest point.

3

A lone tent, barely large enough to comfortably fit about a half-dozen people, stood near the damaged remains of a highly technologically advanced human outpost. Inside, Typhos lay on his back, still recovering from a surprisingly powerful gunshot wound near his chest and a sharp sword slice to his face. Around him, wearied and exhausted white-robed Kastori worked to heal him of the stubborn wounds, some literally dying to save their Lord.

“How much longer until you are finished?” he growled at one of his Kastori, Gregus.

I have no time for this. The Orthrans are healed. I am not. If they come here and I have to fight in a weakened state…

I wish taking this planet didn’t require me being full strength.

“My Lord, it is impossible to say, the damage—”

Enraged, Typhos stood up and shoved Gregus out of the tent. The pain still seared on his face and chest, even with the protective mask and robes on, but all of his anger pushed him past that. He stood over Gregus and lifted him off the ground.

“Don’t tell your Lord anything is impossible,” he sneered. “I conquered Anatolus. I conquered Monda. I created Calypsius.”

All things which I no longer have.

You’re lucky I need you right now, Gregus. On Monda, I would’ve snapped your neck for relief.

“And I will kill the ones who forced me into hiding here.”

Cyrus. The human.

Celeste.

He flashed back to the moment when he had pierced her chest. He just had to pull the sword back and stab her again, or find her heart and end it right there. Instead, he took a beat too long to gloat and suffered his own injuries as a result.

Even though, so sure you were dead. Now you’re the new reminder of all the terrible things I’ve experienced.

Unless I made sure you had a chance to survive. Could it be…

No. Celeste, you were lucky. Very lucky.

“I… agree… My Lord,” Gregus said, bringing Typhos back to the present.

Typhos grunted at Gregus and dropped him into the sand. He looked at the short, once-fat Kastori with disdain.

“We’ve been here several days, and you still have not healed me properly,” Typhos said in disgust. “I should have known better than to rely on mere Kastori like this.”

“My Lord, I’m sorry, I—”

“Save it,” Typhos snapped. “All of you must continue to work. Anyone caught eating on my watch will suffer.”

They do not need sustenance like I need healing. If they die, they die for a greater cause. Besides, their deaths are not the ones I crave the most.

As Typhos whirled around, his hand on his chest, massaging the gunshot wound, he thought about how he might fight the traitorous Kastori and the annoying siblings. He had no black or red magic Kastori left. Even one man, a god in his own eyes, could not defeat an entire legion of Kastori. His earlier trials on Anatolus in his younger days had shown such a thing was not possible.

But then the thought came to Typhos, and he couldn’t stop smiling at what he saw.

Instead of an army of Kastori, he would have a division of monsters. Numerous Caliphae would attack on land, their overwhelming size and weapons making it impossible for the humans or Kastori to stand a chance. Beasts from the sea, ones he had not yet imagined but would create, would attack from the flanks, making retreat impossible.

And up in the sky, Calypsius would return.

But not just the one. He would have three—each one wielding a type of magic.

And if even that all fails… I’ll create a monster, a destroyer of worlds. Who would ever need weak Kastori like the ones before me when I have creatures who feast on Kastori? I’m simply trading up the chain of destruction.

You don’t have the strength to create such an army, though. You need more power. And the Orthrans will come and stop you soon if you don’t hurry.

“All Kastori!” Typhos shouted from the entrance of his tent.

The remaining seven survivors, all emaciated—even Gregus had lost what looked like twenty pounds since the recovery process started—quickly came to Typhos. Their heads slouched and many wobbled, on the verge of passing out.

“I need all of you to heal me now with even more intensity than before. There will be no breaks. No one will sleep. When it is done, I promise you can have all of the rest you need. But the enemy is threatening to make its way here, and we cannot wait any longer. Understood?”

The Kastori all wearily nodded, saying together, “Yes, Lord Typhos.”

The man laid on his bed as he plotted his next steps.
Take out Nubia. That has to happen tomorrow. If it weakens you, hide on Anatolus. You cannot let Cyrus or Celeste get that under any circumstance.

Take Tapuya. The red magic there will allow you to summon your army of monsters.

Then, Vostoka, if it’s there. You don’t need white magic when nothing can hurt you. So long as the siblings do not get it themselves.

Yes. Yes. You will not fail. The one you could not kill is now dead.

Dead…

Yes, she’s gone. You would have killed the girl if not for your mother’s sacrifice.

Sacrifice for her child… her favorite child…

Celeste will die!

The Kastori all laid hands on Typhos, and he felt the pain in his body subside. He could not remove the agony in his mind, however, as the thoughts formed an unending loop, circling between confident in triumph to regretful of what he did not have.

4

Celeste walked ahead of Cyrus and Crystil at the peak, both eager to see her father and to get away from her brother.
He’s letting his anger get the best of him. We can’t go down that route. That’s exactly how it all started with the other brother. I don’t need a second brother who has anger and aggression issues.

At the peak, she found her father looking out on the far side, by the statue which once held the sword now in the possession of Typhos. She slowed her walk to avoid startling him and stood next to him with a sigh.

“Are you fighting with your brother again?” he asked with a gentle smile.

The familiar question brought a nostalgic laugh from Celeste, one so genuine it made her forget the perceived severity of Cyrus’ actions for a few moments.

“I wish it was over who got to sit where at the dinner table,” she said, turning back to see Crystil and Cyrus bantering as they usually did. “Dad, he killed an enemy in frustration. That’s disturbing to me. I don’t want him to end up like Typhos.”