by Dan Zangari
Kaescis yelled, swinging his monstrous weapon, but Cornar intercepted the blade with his short-sword. Now twisted over the prince, Cornar slammed his newly freed dagger toward Kaescis. The dagger struck the upper-right part of the breastplate, eroding the golden-red plating.
Cornar jolted, a result of his serrated dagger piercing the prince’s armor.
Kaescis wailed again.
The pressure against Cornar’s short-sword lessened. Cornar glimpsed the prince’s black weapon fall onto the walkway. Jahevial was also nearby, straining against pain. It sounded as if the scholar was uttering an incantation, but it was almost indistinguishable amid his groans and grunts.
Cornar jolted again, his serrated dagger sinking deep into the prince’s chest.
“Aunok’sha!” the prince screamed, “why have you forsaken me?!”
Ignoring the mad would-be tyrant, Cornar reared back, slamming his short-sword into the hydra emblem on the prince’s armor. A tang resounded as sword and armor met. Blackness eroded the crimson gilding and soon pierced the prince’s chest.
A wailing howl echoed throughout the domed space, accented by the sounds of battle somewhere below the walkways.
“For my father,” Cornar shouted. “And for all of Kalda.” The words were laced with protective fury.
Kaescis’s violet eyes met Cornar’s, his gaze filled with unquenchable malice. The prince’s face twisted in rage and anguish. Never had Cornar felt such violent hate. The prince’s lips twisted, and he began uttering sharp sounds.
“No…” Cornar shook his head, drawing his short-sword from Kaescis’s chest. The prince jolted, but his speech was uninterrupted.
Cornar aimed his short-sword toward Kaescis’s throat, but before he could strike, a burst of orange light raced toward them. Cornar stopped the blade short of the prince’s neck, seeing a slithering streak of orange racing from Jahevial to Kaescis.
A life-draining—
The orange magic swiftly wrapped around Kaescis’s neck, interrupting that strange incantation of his. Kaescis writhed in pain. Cornar stabbed another part of the prince’s breastplate, further anchoring him in place.
The orange magic—a life-draining cord—pulsed rapidly.
Soon, Jahevial was on his feet. Cornar looked to the scholar, whose clothes were tattered. The wounds caused by the Darkness magic, however, were regenerating.
Suddenly, the writhing prince fell still. The life-draining cord pulsed several more times, then slithered back to Jahevial.
“He’s dead,” the scholar said.
Cornar looked at Jahevial for a moment, then back to Kaescis. A twisted expression marred the lifeless face. Cornar knew that a necromancer could sense the death of any bound by such a cord. And, Kaescis had stopped breathing.
Reluctantly, Cornar removed his weapons from the prince’s breastplate. Blackness festered around the wounds, devouring flesh. Cornar waited for a moment, watching for any signs of life.
Jahevial, however, stepped away, moving to the rail of this walkway around the giant crystal.
“Cornar, I see your men.”
My men? Cornar thought, abruptly looking up from the lifeless prince. He hurried to the railing, bracing himself for the dizziness that would accompany his gazing.
On the ground floor, far below the walkway, a large group was moving as one. Cornar quickly counted them. Twenty-nine, he thought, furrowing his brow. Two of the men were on litters. Some of the men were snuffing out torches and discarding them. Clever, Cornar smiled, admiring his men’s ingenuity.
“Kalder!” Cornar shouted. “Nordal! Igan!”
The shout echoed in the dome, but didn’t seem to draw the attention of the group.
“Where are they going?” Jahevial asked.
“To the Promised Maiden,” Cornar replied. “We’re leaving Dalgilur.”
“Do you have a way through the storm?” Jahevial asked incredulously.
“We do,” Cornar said. “Some orange rocks that seem to negate magic.”
Jahevial gasped. “Tazerin? Here, on Dalgilur?” The scholar looked confused.
Kaescis called it that, Cornar thought, turning back to his men.
“I might as well join you,” Jahevial said. “I smuggled some tevisrals aboard the Maiden, for the Order.” Cornar eyed the scholar as he continued his confession. “After the prince’s announcement I figured he would not honor his agreement with Grandmaster Alacor.”
Cornar nodded, remembering Aron’s report. He turned back to his men. They were almost out of sight. “We need to get down from here,” Cornar pushed away from the rail, blinking several times to vanquish the dizziness.
“Come, this way,” Jahevial said, tugging on Cornar’s arm. “We can access those pillars from these walkways.”
Jahevial hurried away, but Cornar turned, glancing once more at his fallen foe. The prince didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. An eerie stillness rested upon him.
Kaescis was dead.
* * * * *
The war camp was in shambles.
Nordal watched warily as colossal conjurations and those tall statues destroyed the Imperial Tent. What a sight… he thought. Nordal didn’t feel an ounce of pity for the damned Tilters. They were getting what they deserved.
“I don’t think we want to get any closer…” Midar cautioned.
Nordal raised an eyebrow at the warrior. “Oh, really?” he asked sarcastically. Those behind the leading trio laughed. “Let’s veer to the left,” Nordal suggested. “If we stay between the wall and that pillar, hopefully they won’t notice us.”
“And if they do notice us?” Cordel asked, his tone serious.
Nordal hoped the Tilters and the pointed ears would be too engrossed in their mutually shared bloodshed to notice the group. If either faction diverged from the battle, Nordal and the others would be safe from all but arrows, at least initially.
“Then we kill them,” Nordal answered. “We cut our way to the pier, even if we have to trudge through a river of blood.”
“Typical Nordal,” Midar said, snickering. Nordal grunted.
They veered to the left, passing behind the pillars on that side of the enormous chamber. Horrified screams echoed through the space, undoubtedly a result of those statues—the stony things were relentless.
Ever cautious, Nordal led the band between the wall and the pillars, careful not to get too close to either in case the orange rocks snuffed out the lights within them. Nordal had discovered the rocks’ dispelling effect spread nearly a hundred phineals in each direction. The effects seemed greater than when they first pried them from the vault, as if touching them had increased their potency. But that couldn’t be possible…
As they passed the pillar nearest to the war camp, Hem cried emphatically, “Look!”
Nordal—and the others not beleaguered by the wounded—spun with their weapons drawn. Frightful possibilities flashed through Nordal’s mind. He expected to see Prince Kaescis darting toward them with that misting black sword. Once he turned, however, the fear vanished.
Hushed gasps and the sounds of restrained cheers washed all around the battered warriors and mages. Nordal too smothered a whoop.
He survived! Nordal cheered inwardly. Many of the warriors raised their weapons high, saluting their leader, their mentor, and their friend. You really are a legend, Nordal grinned. He thought of what it must have taken to slay that bastard prince. If only I could have witnessed it.
Cornar ran with weapons drawn, his blades glowing with that deadly black light. He ran ahead of another, a man in a black robe. The very sight was akin to many a charge Nordal had witnessed—Master Iltar and Cornar dashing headlong into danger ahead of the rest of the party.
But it was not Master Iltar who ran with Cornar—it was Jahevial.
“Uncle!” Ordreth cried, pushing his way toward the party’s rear. The young warrior looked frantic.
As Cornar and Jahevial reached the effects of the orange rocks, the blackness around both th
e serrated dagger and short-sword disappeared. Cornar sheathed his weapons just in time to embrace Ordreth. The two hugged tightly, and Nordal barely heard the young warrior exclaiming heartfelt gratitude for his uncle’s safety.
Cornar patted his nephew on the back, then gestured to the others. Together, they ran to the head of the party.
“You’re one tough bastard,” Nordal said with a sly grin. “First you defy earthquakes and now diabolical princes. What’s next?”
Cornar chuckled, grinning widely. He turned back to the others and his expression darkened. “Kamdir…?” Cornar asked, allowing his emotions to seep through the question.
“He didn’t make it,” Midar answered solemnly. “His lung was eroded, as was part of his heart.”
Tears welled in Cornar’s eyes, but he managed to hold them back. “We need to hurry before the fighting stops,” Cornar said, glancing to the war camp.
Marching with determination, Cornar took the lead of the party.
* * * * *
Solidin stabbed a Wildman through the stomach, then whirled to meet his next foe. In Solidin’s other hand he wielded a broken sword. Most of the blade was sheared, forming a jagged slant. Though the handle was too large, the broken blade was just the right size.
The weapon Solidin had stolen from Laeyit had since vanished. It crumbled in his grasp not long after she disappeared with the draconic gholistra. He supposed she had deactivated the weapon—it was a result of a tevisral, after all.
Both dagger and broken sword clashed with a fanisar, wielded by a Crimson Praetorian. Solidin rebounded, and both he and the Praetorian clashed in another deadlock.
The Praetorian had a notch in his breastplate. Oh, you, he thought, remembering this particular Praetorian from the Keeper’s Shrine in the Igeacean Sea. Solidin and the Praetorian fought wildly as the battle raged around them. They dueled over the dead, elf and Mindolarnian alike. Several half-breeds lay about, too.
Amid one of their deadlocks, Solidin glimpsed a familiar face on the ground. Kaldarin. Solidin’s lieutenant was maimed, his torso partially eroded—disintegrated, by the looks of it. A leg was also missing.
Oh, my friend, Solidin mourned. But there was no time to grieve.
Relentlessly, Solidin pressed his foe, forcing him toward the main battle. They neared a small group of the Sapphire Guard leveling a squad of Mindolarnians. Gladis was among them.
The transmuter noticed the duel, and Solidin knew what he must do. He carefully maneuvered himself so that the Praetorian’s back was turned toward Gladis. He roared continuously, using his voice to flood the Praetorian’s hearing. All the while, brown magic formed around Gladis’s hands—transmutative magic.
A sudden blast of brown light shot to the ground behind the Praetorian. Some of the corpses—and the floor—liquefied. The now liquid matter rose from the ground in a curving arc, solidifying as it moved.
Solidin charged, evading the sweeping fanisar. He rammed the Praetorian with his shoulder, forcing him toward the transmutation. Solidin briefly glimpsed Gladis’s creation—it was a metal stalagmite, curved so its tip pointed horizontally at chest height.
Ingenious, Solidin thought as a resounding crack reached his ears.
The Praetorian gasped, struggling to free himself from both Solidin and the transmutation. Solidin, however, spun around his foe. He grappled the Praetorian, using his weight to hold his foe in place upon Gladis’s deadly transmutation.
As the Praetorian struggled, Solidin noticed movement to his right, to the northern side of this place cut out of the mountain.
A small group—perhaps thirty—was moving between the pillars and the wall. Many looked wounded, and two were carried upon something Solidin couldn’t quite discern. At their head, however, was a man Solidin could recognize at any distance.
Cornar Dol’shir.
Where are you going? Solidin thought, And why are your men wounded? Solidin buckled amid the thought, but regained his hold upon the Praetorian.
More transmutative magic struck the ground in front of both Solidin and his foe; all the while, the Praetorian began uttering his own incantation. Violet light shone around the crimson armor.
Solidin warily eyed the liquefying ground. Hurry, Gladis! More violet light shone around the Praetorians hands as he continued uttering the disintegrating incantation.
Two more transmuted stalagmites shot from the ground, arcing toward the Praetorian’s chest.
Solidin relinquished his grip, and the Praetorian lurched forward, attempting to free himself, but he was too late. All three of Gladis’s transmutations pierced the Praetorian’s breastplate, holding him in place.
The violet light flickered as the Praetorian slurred the incantation, but exhaled in a way that held the spell.
No you don’t. Solidin rebounded. He weaved between the curving stalagmites and stabbed his broken sword through the crack between breastplate and helmet, piercing the Praetorian’s neck.
The humming ceased.
“That’ll interrupt you,” Solidin said, turning from his dying foe. He returned his gaze to Cornar Dol’shir. The man was passing the pillar nearest the towering doors.
You’re escaping, Solidin thought. Their flight gave him pause.
“More Mindolarnians?” Gladis asked, coming beside Solidin.
“No,” Solidin shook his head. “Cornar Dol’shir.”
“I will take my squad,” Gladis said, hastily turning, but Solidin caught his arm.
“Don’t pursue him,” Solidin said sternly.
“Why?” Gladis asked tersely.
Honorable in all things, the words echoed in Solidin’s mind. They were part of the Keepers’ vow, a vow he had taken while succumbing to the attunement process. Pursuing Cornar and his men—especially in their current state—would be dishonorable. They weren’t the Sapphire Guard’s foes, though they were trespassing on Dalgilur.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Solidin finally answered. “Besides, he didn’t stand in the way of our escape from Klindil. Think of it as returning a favor.”
Gladis remained silent, but Solidin could tell he disapproved.
“And the Mindolarnians?” the transmuter asked, sounding annoyed.
Solidin gave his friend a sidelong glance. “We give them battle until they capitulate. Until then, we slay them.”
* * * * *
Cornar thought he saw a couple elves eyeing him and his men as they escaped the Hall of the Guardians. But none diverged from the battle within the Mindolarnian war camp. The trek through Dalgilur was also uneventful. Faint sounds of battle reached the party, coming from both the east and west.
Once they cleared the outer ring of Dalgilur’s buildings they continued down the road leading to the pier. Cornar could see a battle, but it was nearly four grand phineals away, so nothing was discernible.
A shadow suddenly passed over them. Startled, Cornar gazed skyward and saw what he thought was the impossible. That statue—the one resembling a dragon—swooped toward the pier.
How… Cornar shook his head, dumbfounded at the sight. The dragon-statue soared straight for one of the ships anchored to the north, probably the Executor’s Breath. The statue ripped the foremast from the decking, soared over the pier, circled once, and then hurled the mast like a javelin, impaling the ship.
“By Heleron’s Trident…” Cornar cursed. He abruptly scanned the rest of the pier. One of the Mindolarnian warships was tilting, its stern rising out of the water. It’s sinking… he thought. Cornar searched for the Promised Maiden, but didn’t see it.
“Where is the Promised Maiden?” Cornar muttered under his breath.
“Farther down the pier,” Kalder said, pointing.
Nordal cursed, and rightly so. The pier was eight grand phineals long. If they started running now, it would take them half an hour to reach the Promised Maiden.
“We need to get to the Promised Maiden before that thing sinks it,” Cornar said, glancing over his shoulder. Several of the wou
nded were walking only by the aid of another. There was no way they could run.
Blast, Cornar cursed. He feared they wouldn’t make it, not with that flying statue wreaking havoc. The situation seemed hopeless, but Cornar pushed ahead anyway. He hadn’t brought his men this far only to fail. They had to make it.
Cornar led them toward the pier, warily watching the dragon-statue continue its assault. The statue would swoop toward the sinking vessels or the pier, then take to the skies, briefly disappearing within the clouds before attacking again. As they neared the battle, the dragon-statue snatched the combatants, taking them to staggering heights and then dropping them.
How horrific…
Soon, they neared the battle.
Mindolarnians and Wildmen clashed with a small group of the Sapphire Guard. The dragon-statue ignored the elves, focusing on the Mindolarnians and Wildmen. Occasionally, armored men fell from the sky, crashing into the plains around the battle.
“Veer right!” Cornar commanded through clenched teeth. He did not want to get mixed up in that battle. Perhaps if they stayed aloof, the statue would ignore them.
Cornar kept his band a few hundred phineals away, skirting around the southern part of the battle. He watched the skies, wary of being struck by the statue’s victims. Once they were halfway to the pier, the dragon-statue noticed Cornar and his men.
“It’s looking at us…” Midar muttered.
“We’ll be fine,” Nordal said reassuringly, his tone confident.
The dragon-statue hovered. How can it do that? Cornar furrowed his brow. It defies all logic! The statue bellowed sharp words and bared its teeth. It swooped toward Cornar and the others, exhaling brilliant blue flame. The fire raced above the battle, approaching faster than an arrow.
There was no time to flee.
Nordal defiantly stepped forward, raising his shard of tazerin. “You cannot burn us!” the warrior shouted. Cornar could see the fury on Nordal’s face.
The unnatural fire engulfed the sky as it approached, but dissipated a hundred phineals away.
“It worked!” Aron shouted.