by J B Drake
“Oh, they will,” the chronodragon snarled. “My face is the last thing they’ll see before they die.”
Floating past the tree, the chronodragon stood tall as she undid the spells that kept her hidden, and as the gasps of the sellswords fill the air, her snarl grew.
“Look at you all,” she yelled, “arrayed to kill a child! You must be so proud!”
“Proud?” the voice earlier yelled back. “She slaughtered my comrades for no reason!”
“Oh, she didn’t slaughter them, my friend,” Anieszirel sneered, “I did. And I am far from done!”
“We’ll see about that! Second bolts, fire!”
Standing tall, the chronodragon watched the bolts whistle towards her, a smirk upon her lips. As they flew through her, however, the chronodragon’s entire body was wracked with such excruciating pain it took all she had to not fall to her knees.
“Second bolts, reload! First bolts, prepare to fire!”
“Oh no you don’t,” the chronodragon said, then marched forth.
“Fire!”
At that moment, Anieszirel transformed into a bolt of lightning, hurtling herself at the sellswords before exploding at their feet, sending many of them flying, and as she returned to her astral form, she called forth a wind vine in each hand, latching them at the feet of two of the crossbowmen and transforming them into flails with which to batter those that still stood.
“Second shield, charge!”
But the men charged at nothing, for in that moment, the chronodragon transformed again, this time into a mist that flew upwards and out of their reach, and as she reformed once more, the ground beneath the sellswords began to shake and rumble, till at last, spikes as tall as an infant burst from the ground, impaling them where they stood. As they cried in pain, the chronodragon flew down into their midst, and as they reached for her, Anieszirel pulled herself close before unleashing a single blast of pure arcane energy right into their midst. None was spared.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Marsha,” the chronodragon called out.
“Hunh?” Marshalla said, peeking out from behind the tree in time to watch the chronodragon glide out from the crater she was within.
“Are you alright?”
Marshalla smiled.
“Better now that…” she began, but movement at the edge of her vision stole her words, and as she turned to it, her eyes went wide.
“Ani, look out!” she cried.
But it was too late, for as she spoke, a single beam of emerald light flew at the chronodragon, sending her to her knees.
“Ani!” Marshalla cried as she made to run to the chronodragon.
But she needn’t have bothered, for, with a roar, the chronodragon dispelled the defiling spell and rose once more.
“Impressive!” Weighton called out as he marched towards them at the head of a column of sellswords twice the size of that which the chronodragon had just dispatched, all of them shield-bearers. “That spell should’ve reduced you to a fetid pile by now. You’re no mere shade, are you?”
Anieszirel sneered at the lich, but held her peace.
“I shall make you this offer only once, shade,” Weighton said as he reached the chronodragon, his sellswords spreading out behind him. “Give me the girl…”
“She is not yours,” Anieszirel snarled.
“…and I shall let you leave here in peace.”
“She is not yours, lich.”
“She is not yours either, shade.”
“I am her shield against the likes of you.”
“The likes of me?” Weighton cried. “You think you’re performing some noble service killing my people like this? I am trying to prevent the ending of our world here!”
“Lie to yourself all you wish, Weighton. She. Is. Not. Yours.”
Weighton stared at Anieszirel in silence for a spell.
“You say you’re her shield,” he said at last, his brow furrowed. “Does that mean you’re always there defending her?”
Anieszirel held her peace.
“And how do you do that, I wonder?”
Still, the chronodragon said nothing.
The lich smiled. “You’re linked to her, aren’t you? Only way to be sure to always be there.”
Still, the chronodragon kept her peace, but she blinked, and as she did so, Weighton’s smile widened.
“Put the girl to sleep any way you can,” he said, turning to his sellswords. “The shade needs the girl awake.”
“You think I’ll just vanish when she goes to sleep?” Anieszirel sneered. “You fool.”
“Vanish? No,” Weighton replied. “No, you’re going to be here long enough for me to pound you into dust. And when you go off to lick your wounds, you won’t return till the girl awakens.”
“If you do that,” Anieszirel snarled, “the moment she wakes, I shall destroy you and everything around you.”
Weighton’s smile grew still. “I don’t need her awake.”
Anieszirel could only stare.
“Get the girl.”
As one, the sellswords charged, ignoring Anieszirel and hurrying to the tree. Turning to face the oncoming wave, Anieszirel raised her hands, all set to unleash her elemental fury upon them. As she moved, however, earthen chains grew about her feet, holding her fast.
“What?” she said, turning to Weighton just in time to watch the earthen hammer he’d conjured swing for her head, and while she tried to dart out of its way, the chains held her fast, and as the hammer smashed against her temple, Anieszirel felt her sight whiten and blur.
“Too easy,” she heard the lich mutter, and as she refocused, she watched him cast another spell.
Snarling, the chronodragon loosened the earth about the chains, and darted back just in time to avoid a frozen axe, large and vicious, swing for her, its icy edge missing her by a hair’s breadth. Before Weighton could swing the axe anew, however, Anieszirel wrenched it from his grasp, the shock in his eyes lending her strength, and with a snarl, the chronodragon swung the axe wide, slicing through both those few who had made it past her, and those who’d only just reached her. But as she prepared to turn the axe upon its conjurer, a vicious gust crashed against her chest, slamming her against the tree behind her with enough force to shake the snow from the branches above.
“You little wretch!” Weighton thundered. “Those were good people!”
“She…” Anieszirel gasped, “is…not…yours!”
Glaring at the lich, Anieszirel dug her hands deep into the snow and breathed deep before calling forth an anchor to hold Marshalla tight against the tree.
“Get the girl!” Weighton cried, and the rest of his sellswords charged forth.
Closing her eyes, the chronodragon cleared her mind and waited, and when the men were near enough, she opened them, and as she breathed out, the defiant chronodragon called forth a raging tempest about the tree, one whose fury far surpassed that which she’d called in Kirsk those few days previous, and as the men skidded to a halt, Anieszirel flung the tempest at them, the winds within it carting each sellsword skywards as if they were mere parchment, their screams drowned by the howl of the tempest.
“No!” Weighton cried as he tried to counter Anieszirel’s spell.
But it was too late, his men were too close to the tree to avoid the tempest’s wrath, and before long only he remained.
A dreadful silence fell upon them all as Weighton glared at the chronodragon, his entire being quivering.
“What have you done?” he seethed at the rising chronodragon.
“She is not—”
“Stop saying that!” he roared, and called forth his earthen hammer once more.
“Stop…” he bellowed, the hammer slamming against Anieszirel’s skull.
“…killing…” he continued, the hammer smashing against the chronodragon’s cheek.
“…my…” he roared, barrelling the hammer into Anieszirel stomach and doubling her over.
“…p
eople!” he thundered as he crashed the hammer into the chronodragon’s face.
And with a final roar, the lich that was Weighton brought the hammer down with all his might, shattering it upon Anieszirel’s skull and sending the chronodragon to her knees and her face into the snow.
Panting, Weighton march forth, but as the chronodragon rose, he stopped, and as their eyes met, Weighton stared hard at the chronodragon.
“What in the hells are you?” he said.
Though the lich was stunned by Anieszirel’s resilience, his words were for a simpler reason, for no longer was he staring at the face of a human woman whose beauty he would’ve found captivating in another time and at another place. Instead, he now stared into the vicious eyes of a battle-drunk orc.
Snarling, the orc fell to her knees and pushed her hands deep into the snow, and as Weighton stared, she lowered her gaze. Standing still, Weighton steeled himself for the spell that was to come, calling forth his wards in preparation, but when none was forthcoming, he stepped forth. As he did so, however, the orc raised her gaze, her eyes a soft amber hue, and in that instant, an earthen spike longer than Weighton was tall erupted between his legs before impaling his entire body, the tip of it jutting out through his shoulder, his wards shattered in an instant.
Rising, the orc sneered as Weighton writhed and gasped, and with a snarl, she conjured a blade of flame, slicing through the great tree behind her before latching a wind vine upon it and lifting it.
“She…” the orc barked, slamming the tree upon Weighton, the spike crumbling beneath the tree’s weight.
“…is…” the orc yelled, crashing the majestic redwood upon the lich once more as he crumpled to the floor.
“…not…” the orc cried, pummelling Weighton deep into the earth with the tree.
“…yours!” she bellowed, Weighton’s prone body crushed under the tree’s continued onslaught.
With a final bellow, the orc threw the tree high before latching a second wind vine onto it, and, with the last of her strength, she brought it down hard upon what was left of Weighton, the resulting crash reverberating about them like the roar of an angry god.
“She is not yours,” the orc gasped, before staggering back and falling against the stump of the great tree, and there she lay, panting and gasping.
It was then that Marshalla rose and stepped forth.
“Ani, is that really you?” she said, staring with some trepidation at the orc as she hugged her shield tight.
Anieszirel smiled.
“Yes, Marsha,” she said. “It’s me. This is my true face.”
“But…the other face—”
“Someone I used to know.”
“Why show your face now?”
The chronodragon smiled. “Because Weighton almost won.”
“What?”
Anieszirel nodded. “I had to let go of all my illusions and maintained spells to have enough strength to put him in the ground.”
“Oh,” Marshalla replied, then smiled. “So, you’re an orc and a chronodragon?”
“Something like that.”
“So, what, there are different types of chronodragons or something? Orc ones and human ones?”
“There’s only one kind, my dear.”
“Ani, you’re making my head hurt.”
Anieszirel’s smile grew. “You’re not born a chronodragon, Marsha, you’re raised up as one.”
“Eh?”
Chuckling, Anieszirel closed her eyes, then sighed.
“Is he dead?”
Opening her eyes, Anieszirel stared at the tree beneath which Weighton now rested, then shook her head.
“Not quite,” she said.
“What, after you planted a whole bloody tree on his head?”
“He’s in a world of pain, to be sure,” Anieszirel replied, “but dead … would that we were so lucky.”
Then, with a loud groan, she rose to her feet.
“Let’s go find the others,” she continued, “before he pulls himself together.”
“You sure you can face anyone right now?”
Anieszirel’s smile returned. “Given how many have died today, I doubt there’s any left to oppose us.”
“You’re sure?”
“Come on. Every moment we stand here is a moment wasted. Let’s go give the others a nice surprise, eh?”
“Yeah,” Marshalla grinned, then began heading back the way she’d come.
“I wonder what the others are up to now,” she said as she trundled through the snow. “Do you think they’ll…”
Coming to a halt, Marshalla’s face turned ashen as her throat tightened.
“Oh dear gods,” Anieszirel gasped at her side.
The pair stood rigid, unable to speak as they watched a line of crossbowmen slowly advance, their bows loaded and glowing, their number the same as the shield-bearers that had followed Weighton into battle.
“So many,” Marshalla whispered.
As the chronodragon’s blood ran cold, her mind raced.
“Ani,” Marshalla pleaded as they neared. “Do something!”
“I…” the chronodragon began, but her words died in her throat.
There was nothing she could do, her strength was spent. It was all she could do to remain where she was. Desperate, she scanned their surrounds, but there was no cover, no outcrop or other feature they could use to their advantage.
Then, the line stopped.
“Ani?”
The chronodragon stared from the line to Marshalla, and as they held each other’s gaze, the young girl shook her head.
“You can’t do anything, can you?” Marshalla said.
“I…” Anieszirel began, staring at the column once more before returning her gaze to her friend.
“Your vampire friend is dead!” one of the guards yelled.
“No!” Marshalla cried.
“Come with us quietly or your pirate friend will join her!”
Just then, the tree groaned and swayed before at last toppling, it’s mighty crash sending snow and dust high into the air, and as it all settled, Weighton stood once more, though it was now clear for all to see that this truly was a lich.
“You thought it was over, didn’t you?” he slurred, panting as his jaw hung to the side. “You thought it was done. Well, I have an army, shade, an army!”
“Sir, what is your order?” the lead guard cried.
“It’s over, shade,” Weighton said. “The girl comes with me, or the Crimson Blade dies.”
“And if I go with you…” Marshalla began.
“What? No!” the chronodragon cried.
“…will you release her?”
“You have my word,” Weighton replied.
“Wait, what’re you doing?” Anieszirel said as she turned to Marshalla.
Marshalla smiled.
“It’s over, Ani,” she said. “Get her home.”
“What’re you talking about? We—”
“No, Ani.” Marshalla shook her head as she stepped forth.
“Wait, damn you!” Anieszirel yelled as she barred Marshalla’s path. “Think this through.”
In response, Marshalla neared the chronodragon till she stood right before her.
“If you go with him,” Anieszirel whispered, “he’ll make you talk. You can’t resist him.”
“I don’t intend to.” Marshalla smiled.
“What do you mean you don’t intend to?” Anieszirel frowned. “You mean you want to tell him where Tip is?”
In response, Marshalla showed the chronodragon that which she had tucked behind her shield. It was a dagger.
“Where did you get that?” Anieszirel hissed, her eyes going wide.
It was then she realised the fear she saw in Marshalla’s eyes was not to do with the sellswords that had them pinned.
“Have you lost your mind?”
Shaking her head, Marshalla smile grew. “You’ve done all you can, Ani.”
“Marsha, wait.”
&nb
sp; “I’m sorry I brought you here. I’m sorry I’ve been so stubborn. I’m sorry for everything. Look after the others for me, alright? Please?”
“Stop trying to be such a bloody hero, damn you!”
Marshalla shook her head. “You can’t stop them from taking me. They’ve won, Ani. They’ve won.”
“Marsha—”
“Amala’s dead. If I don’t do this, Anise’ll join her.”
“No, but—”
“It’s alright, Ani,” Marshalla grinned as tears ran down her cheeks. “He won’t hurt me, I won’t let him.”
“Stop talking like that!”
“Remember me, Ani, alright? Please?”
“Damn it, no!” Anieszirel cried as Marshalla moved to walk around her.
“I’ll hold off for as long as I can, but hurry, please hurry.”
“Marsha, no, you…”
Shaking her head, the young red-haired girl began a slow march toward the sellswords.
“No,” Anieszirel breathed as her mind whirled.
“No,” she said as she scanned her surrounds for something, anything.
“No!” she cried, then her eyes fell upon the snow at her feet.
“Snow,” she gasped as she looked up once more. “Frost!”
Those words were spawned by memories of a great horror unleashed upon the world by her very hands. The mere thought of it chilled her heart and turned her stomach, but as she watched Marshalla march to her death, she knew she had no choice.
“Wait!” she yelled, floating to bar Marshalla’s way once more.
“Your friend’s life hangs in the balance!” Weighton yelled.
“Ani, step aside,” Marshalla muttered.
“One spell,” the chronodragon pleaded.
“No, Ani, you can barely—”
“One spell, damn it!” she snapped. “Just one! If I can’t cast it, I’ll not stop you.”
“Ani—”
“Why are you so desperate to die?” she hissed. “Just one.”
Marshalla stared past the chronodragon to the sellswords arrayed behind them.
“One spell for them all?” she whispered.
Anieszirel nodded.
Marshalla stared hard at the chronodragon, then nodded.
“One spell, Ani.”
“One spell,” Ani nodded, then took a step back.
“When the winds gather,” the chronodragon added, “get on your knees. Get down, keep your head down, and whatever you hear, whatever you feel, whatever you think, don’t move.”