by J B Drake
“Woah!” she cried as she dove to the ground before scrambling away from the barrels.
“Did you see Weighton?”
“Would you stop asking about him?” Anise snapped, turning to glare at Anise. “You’re in no fit state to face him.”
“This isn’t about facing him.”
“What the hells is it about, then?”
“Did you not see why he left us?”
Anise frowned at her companion.
“Two guards joined that fray late, one of them whispered something to him and he ran off like Hazuel was after him. Where do you suppose he was going?”
“Oh, gods,” Anise whispered as her eyes went wide.
“Precisely,” Amala nodded. “I was hoping I was wrong, that he’d come for us instead of going for her.”
Anise shook her head. “He’s not out there.”
“Damn it all.” Amala sighed. Then, without warning, the vampire doubled over, gasping as if her bowels were being ripped out of her.
“Amala!” Anise cried as she moved to hurry to the vampire’s side.
“Stay where you are!” Amala cried as she raised her head once more. “Just stay there.”
As Anise stared into the vampire’s eyes, her blood ran cold. With fangs bared and eyes more bloodshot than Anise had ever seen on any creature, Anise knew beyond all doubt that she would soon be sharing that storeroom with a monster many a child’s nightmares were made of, and the one tiny blade she had upon her would avail her little against its onslaught.
“Crimson Blade!” came a voice from outside the storeroom. “We know you’re in there. We shall give you this one chance! Come out with your hands raised! Refuse, and we shall wait!”
Anise frowned.
“Wait for what?” she yelled
“Your vampire friend has lost a lot of blood. She’ll need to feed soon.”
“Bastards!” Anise spat.
“Inventive, though.” Amala smiled.
Turning, Anise stared at the vampire. “Can you walk?”
Amala’s smile grew. “My dear, it’s all I can do to keep my lips from your throat.”
“But can you…?”
Amala doubled over once more, crying out in agony as her thirst grew with maddening ferocity.
“Amala!” Anise cried.
“Go!” Amala pleaded. “Get out of here!”
“I’m not leaving—”
“Get out of here!” Amala bellowed. “I can’t take it any longer! Go!”
As Anise moved to speak, Amala raised her head and shrieked, her fangs glistening in the light. In that moment, Anise knew her companion was lost to the thirst. But then, as the Archmage watched Amala’s descent into a madness she could never truly understand, an idea wormed its way into the fore of her mind. It was brazen, almost certain to end in her death, but it just might work. And so, steeling herself, the Archmage pulled free her blade, grasped it tight, closed her eyes, and whispered words of arcane.
As silence fell upon the storeroom. Anise opened her eyes and stared at Amala. The snarl upon the woman’s lips gave Anise pause, but the confusion in her eyes brought a smile to Anise’s lips. Slowly, Anise rose, her mirror image rising in perfect harmony.
Amala stared from one to the other, her confusion growing.
As Anise’s smile grew, she raised her dagger, and so too did her mirror image. Then, she raised her hand, and so too did her mirror image. And when she cut her hand with her dagger, so too did her mirror image cut hers. And when her blood dripped to the stone floor, so too did the blood of her mirror image stain the stone floor.
Poor Amala was beside her self. Her thirst compelled her to lunge forth, but her mind was unsure which was real and which was an illusion.
Anise stood tall, her smile growing still.
“Ready, Amala?” she said.
Amala’s eyes darted from one to the other, a deep guttural growl escaping her lips.
“Yes,” Anise nodded, “you’re ready.”
Then, without warning, the Archmage flung her blood at the stone floor just before the vampire, and as Amala dove to lick it, Anise turned and vaulted over the barrels. But as she launched herself upwards, the vampire saw her escape and lunged at her, clearing the distance between them in a single bound before wrapping her arms about Anise and bringing her fangs down upon the Archmage’s neck just as Anise cleared the barrels.
Except Amala had lunged at the illusion, and as she clattered to the floor, Anise spun away from her, the force of her leap sending her stumbling. As she scrambled to her feet, however, three guards barrelled into her, shields at the ready, pinning her against the wall behind her before wrenching her dagger from her grasp.
“Aim!” she heard the lead guard yell.
“What?” Anise cried, then turned just as several guards advanced upon a winded Amala, shields forward and crossbows raised.
“Wait!” she cried.
“Fire!”
“No!”
But her words fell upon deaf ears, and thus did she watch as a volley of bolts tore through Amala’s flesh. As she watched, Anise screamed the vampire’s name, but Amala could not move, the magic of the bolts sapping her strength and killing her where she lay, and as the vampire quivered, Anise felt her heart break as her eyes glistened.
“Reload!” the lead guard cried.
“No!” Anise yelled. “No!”
“Reload!”
Roaring, Anise turned to the guards pinning her so. Grabbing hold of the shield of the one right before her, the Archmage pulled upon it, and as the guard leant in to apply more pressure, Anise closed her teeth upon the guard’s nose and bit down with all she had, the guard’s shrieking lending her strength for what was to come, and as the other guards loosened their grip to free their companion from her clutches, Anise bit through the guard’s nose before spitting it at the guard to her left. In response, all three guards stepped back from her, dragging the injured guard whose hands now covered his nose. Anise’s hands never left his shield.
“Aim!”
Without pause for thought, Anise flung the shield at Amala.
“Fire!”
Just as the guards loose their bolts, so did the shield clatter before the quivering vampire. The guards’ bolts never struck home.
“What?” the lead guard cried. “Reload!”
Anise grinned, but it was short-lived, for as she straightened, two of the guards that had her pinned previous barrelled into her once more, one of them crashing a fist into her jaw as he crushed her against the wall. As they pushed against her this time, Anise bent low, raising her arms to her head. But the guards cared little, pushing and pinning her against the wall as she was.
“Aim!”
Just then, Anise noticed a dagger hanging from the belt of one of the guards. Pulling it free, she drove the blade deep into the guard’s side, the gasp from his lips filling her heart with joy, and as she rose, she plunged the dagger deep into his companion’s throat before pulling it free and slicing deep into the first guard’s throat and shoving him with all her might towards Amala.
But the order to fire was never given. Instead, as Anise rose, a bolt tore into her side, filling her with such excruciating pain that the Archmage crumpled unto one knee, a hand upon the bolt’s shaft.
“You’re lucky my orders are to take you alive,” the lead guard said as she lowered the crossbow in her hands. “Otherwise I would take great pleasure in ending you right here.”
Gritting her teeth, Anise held her head high and, holding her breath, pulled the bolt free.
“You and what army?” she said, her voice quivering as she rose to her feet before throwing the bolt upon the body of the guard that lay dead before her.
The lead guard regarded Anise with a deep sneer upon her lips, then turned to the crossbowmen beside her.
“You two,” she pointed to the two nearest. “If she moves, put a bolt in each knee.”
“Understood!” both barked, and levelled their cr
ossbows at Anise.
Just then, three peculiar sounds filled the air all at once. The first was the moans of one in the throes of sheer ecstasy, the second a deep slurp as though drinking from a fountain, the third the pained gasps and gargled groans of one whose life’s essence was being drained away. All three sounds combined told a tale none save Anise wished to hear, and as they turned to the vampire that was Amala, they soon realised she’d crawled out from under the shield Anise had thrown upon her, and was now latched onto the guard the Archmage had thrust towards her, gorging upon the dying man’s blood. The silence that fell upon them all was deafening.
“Well, don’t just stand there!” the lead guard barked at her crossbowmen. “Fire!”
As the guards raised their crossbows, however, Amala rose, the deep sneer upon her lips stilling a great many hearts.
“Oh, gods,” gasped one of the guards as he raised his shield.
“Fire, damn you!” the lead guard cried, her voice a mite higher than before. “Fire!”
But it was too late, for while Amala was still a pale shadow of her former self, enough of her strength had returned to allow her show her hunters what it meant to be hunted, and as the crossbowmen let loose their bolts, Amala dropped low, the bolts whistling over her head, before springing forth, fangs bared and claws at the ready.
As Amala lunged at the guards, a mighty grin parted Anise’s lips, and, not one to shy from battle, the jubilant Archmage grabbed the shield of the fallen guard at her feet and charged forth herself, an exultant roar upon her lips, and soon the two women fought as one, Amala’s speed and primal rage balanced perfectly with Anise’s poise and control. For every third guard that fell at Amala’s feet, the vampire gorged upon another as Anise protected her with her shield, and for every guard that gained the upper hand against Anise, Amala appeared out of nowhere to open the guard’s throat. It was a dance of perfection, as if the two women had fought a thousand battles together in a past life, and before long, none lived save the lead guard and the two women.
Panting, the pair stared at the guard as she cowered behind her shield, her sword clinking against it. Anise took a deep breath, then let it out slowly as she fought to quell the fire within her lungs. Letting go of her shield, she turned to Amala.
“Oh,” she said as her eyes fell upon Amala’s healed arm. “Your arm’s grown back.”
“Hm.” Amala nodded, her eyes fixed upon the lead guard.
“So soon?”
“You ask me that after all I’ve drunk?”
“Fair,” Anise nodded, then turned to the lead guard. “What about her?”
“I still thirst,” Amala said, then marched towards the guard.
“Fair.” Anise nodded once more, then turned to try and get their bearings while Amala fed once more.
Before long, the sound of footsteps reached the Archmage’s ears.
“So,” she began as she turned round, “I believe if we go—”
Her words were cut short by Amala’s hand as she slapped it against Anise’s cheek with enough strength to whiten the Archmage’s vision for a moment.
“What the hells was that for?” Anise cried.
“That was an incredibly stupid thing to do!” Amala shot back.
“Me? You were supposed to go charging into them! How was I to know you’d go falling on your arse!”
Amala’s hand darted out once more, and even though Anise saw the movement, she was unable to avoid the slap.
“Would you stop that?” she barked, glaring at the vampire. “You survived it, didn’t you?”
“I’m not talking about me, you cow!”
“Then, what are you blathering about?”
“Have you any idea how lucky you are that I went for your mirror image? Do you have any idea how badly our lives would be right now if I’d guessed right?”
“But—”
“No buts, Anise, that was reckless! It was utterly reckless! Don’t ever do that again!”
“But—”
“No buts!”
“Alright!” Anise gasped. “Gods…”
“Good,” Amala snarled.
The two stared at each other for a spell.
“Where to now, then?” Anise asked at last.
“Now, we get out,” Amala sighed, “as fast as we can. No more skulking. Marsha’s going to need our help against Weighton.”
“You worry too much,” Anise replied, “she has Ani.”
“That shade?” Amala sneered. “I don’t understand how you can think so highly of such a thing.”
“She’s stronger than you think.”
“And so is Weighton.”
“I thought you said he was lucky,” Anise smirked.
“He was. But he’s a lich, and those things don’t die unless you crush their phylactery.”
“Oh, right.”
“Precisely,” Amala nodded. “And gods only know where he keeps that thing.”
“Damn,” Anise muttered. “We could spend ages searching this whole place and not find it.”
Amala shook her head. “He wouldn’t keep it here. Most liches keep their phylacteries in places no mortal can get to, or would even think of going, a place of great significance to them and them alone.”
Then, she sighed. “You’d have to get into his head to know where that is.”
“Wait, what?”
“Hrm?” Amala frowned as she turned to Anise.
“Head,” Anise replied. “You said head.”
“Did I?” Amala said as her frown deepened.
“I know where it is!” Anise grinned.
“You what?”
“Follow me!” the Archmage cried, then broke into a dead sprint.
“Hey!” Amala yelled. “Wait!” Then raced after her sister in arms.
Quivering in the snow, Marshalla cowered behind the massive redwood tree that was their meeting point, but she did not feel the cold. Hugging her shield tight, she rocked back and forth as her ears strained for the barest of sounds.
“Where are you?” she whispered as she peered round the tree once more. “How long does it take to bloody rest?”
But, as with the other times she’d whispered so, there was no reply. Sighing, her thoughts turned to her other companions once again.
“Please be alright,” she muttered as she rocked back and forth once more. “Please don’t be dead.”
The silence was deafening, crushing what little hope she had, and hugging her shield close, she rested her head upon it and waited. Then, as she moved to peer around the tree once more, she heard them. Voices in the distance, loud and harsh.
Orders.
They were coming.
“Oh, gods,” Marshalla thought as she fought to keep her self-control.
Rising, she peeked round the tree, her heart climbing up her throat, and just as she was about to dismiss it all as her imagination, she saw them, a row of shields defending a row of bolts.
“Oh, gods,” Marshalla repeated as she darted back from view. “Think, Marsha, think!”
She could hear them now, a slow measured march. Perhaps they hadn’t seen her. Perhaps they were simply combing the area.
Then, they stopped, and as the silence dragged on, she moved to peek once more.
“You, behind the tree!” cried out a voice, startling her. “Step out with your hands raised!”
“How did they bloody see me?” Marshalla cried as her mind whirled. Then, as her gaze fell and she caught sight of her footsteps in the snow, her heart sank.
“Step out now!”
“Where are you?” Marshalla hissed as she fought back tears.
But she knew tears would avail her little, so instead, she took a deep breath and tried to think.
“I said now!”
Perhaps she could scare them. Given how she and Anieszirel had escaped, perhaps they could be made to flee with but a single gesture.
“This better bloody work,” she thought, then taking a deep breath, she darted out from
behind the tree and raised her hand, her shield held tight.
“It’s her! First bolts, fire!”
Shrieking, Marshalla darted back behind the tree as a stream of bolts flew past where she had stood.
“What the bloody hells?” she cried.
“First bolts, reload!” she heard a voice cry out. “First shield, advance on that tree! Second bolts, if she steps out with her hand raised again, I want to see her blood in the snow!”
“Weighton will have your head if you kill me!” she yelled.
“I’m taking you dead or alive!” the voice yelled back. “Your choice which.”
Then, she heard footsteps advancing upon her once more.
Fighting back the tears, Marshalla slammed her shield against the tree.
“Where are you?” she said through gritted teeth. “Where the bloody hells are you?”
Still no response.
Not knowing what else to do, and yet not one to give up, Marshalla pulled her shield close once more and summoned all her strength. If they were going to take her, it wouldn’t be without a fight. And so, steeling herself, she turned to the side from which the advancing column would appear, and waited for their charge. Then, when she was sure they were at the tree, she drew herself tall, filled her lungs and roared with all her might before charging round the tree.
As she rounded the tree, however, an unseen force grasped hold of her and pulled her back behind the tree just as a large sphere flew past her, one that radiated a fiery heat, before disappearing around the tree and filling the air with an ear-splitting roar.
Scrambling to her knees, Marshalla stared about her wide-eyed, and as her eyes fell upon the ghostly visage of the chronodragon, she sprang to her feet.
“Where the bloody hells were you?” she shrieked as her tears finally fell.
The chronodragon stared at her with eyes as cold as death, then stared at her surrounds, and as her eyes fell upon the bolts in the snow, her gaze hardened further.
“I need you to stay behind this tree, Marsha,” the chronodragon said. “This dance is mine now, and I dance alone.”
“Wait,” Marshalla said. “They can’t see you.”