She nodded, despite appearing shaken.
Everson peered out the window and saw the man on horseback shouting orders. Turning Colossus, Everson called for another launch. Hundreds of musketeers ran up alongside the man on the horse and began to shoot at the machine. Thuds and tings came from the slugs striking the magic-augmented metal body, but Colossus held steady.
Again, Everson turned the machine as he set his sights. “Fire!” he shouted, feeling more confident as Ivy sent two more bronze flashbombs toward the Imperial war machines.
A group of five soldiers in black ran forward, tossed bombs at Colossus, and ran away.
“Get down!” Everson squatted and held to the wall.
The blast was more significant, the explosion strong enough to tip Colossus up where it balanced for a moment and then fell on its side. Everson and Ivy slammed against the wall. Luckily, their remaining flashbombs held tight in the padded storage compartments.
Everson slowly got to his feet. His shoulder throbbed and his neck was sore. A few feet away, Ivy’s forehead was bloody, her eyes closed, her body still.
“Ivy!” He knelt beside her and found her breathing.
They were on a battlefield and tipped up like a turtle on its back. Helpless, the enemy would soon have the door open. Panic began to squeeze Everson’s throat and he wheezed for air, panting. He heard his sister’s voice in his head. Calm down, Everson. Use your brilliant mind. You’ll think of something.
With conscious effort, he slowed his breathing and then spotted a bronze ball still clutched in Ivy’s hand. He grew alarmed. If it had gone off…
He took the bomb from her and looked up at the cab door and the starry sky beyond it. An idea formed, but it would require perfect timing. He gathered Ivy into his arms and squatted on the floor while staring up at the door. Holding the squat was easy – nothing more than allowing his mechanical legs to remain in position. However, it wasn’t just any position. It was a position of potential – a position of power waiting to be unleashed.
A face appeared in the window above him, grinning like a reaper come to take him. Everson waited. The face disappeared. Moments later, the door opened. When it did, Everson released the power in his legs. The result was a Chaos-charged leap that sent him through the opening in a flash.
Up and up Everson sailed. As he rose, he dropped the bomb in his hand. The bomb tumbled past the surprised enemies who surrounded Colossus and fell into the cab. It detonated, igniting the other bombs inside to create a massive explosion that consumed everything nearby and launched the officer off his horse. A burst of hot air arose beneath Everson and lifted him even higher, but he held tight to Ivy and remained upright.
Everson’s momentum died, his arc peaking at eighty feet before he began to fall as the inferno below billowed and receded. Thirty feet from Colossus, his metal legs landed amid burning grass, his knees bending as the compressed air released from his legs and absorbed the impact. He then burst into a run, carrying Ivy toward the road and away from the fighting.
Broland lay still, taking slow, even breaths, doing his best to keep his chest from rising. Led by a man in a gold tabard, the invaders crossed the square and circled the fountain. The soldiers moved slowly, warily eyeing their surroundings.
Stopping just a few strides from where Broland sat, the leader held his hand up and said, “We must take the citadel. Hold your shields high in case they have archers posted above. Advance slowly and watch for trouble. Remain quiet and listen for my orders.”
The enemy resumed their careful advance, some of the invaders actually stepping over Broland and the others who lay against the fountain.
His neck ached from the odd position he maintained, doing his best to appear dead. The pig’s blood on his neck and arm was wet and disgusting. Rather than dwell on the blood, he prayed none of the Imperial soldiers chose to be thorough and use their swords to poke him or the other “dead” Kantarian soldiers. When the last soldier passed on, an exhale of relief slipped out.
Moving with care to remain silent, he and the other dead men climbed to their feet. He slid his hand into the cold fountain water and grasped the hilt of his sword, drawing it out slowly.
With soft steps, Broland crept toward the nearest building, placing him out of the sightline of the enemy. He dried his palm on his breeches and adjusted his shield as a force of sixty guards gathered around him. Blood-smeared and grim-faced, they were a frightening sight.
“Get ready,” Broland said in a hushed voice. “We must strike them from behind before they see us. If the trip wire doesn’t work, the archers on the tower will blow the horn. Either signal and we attack.”
Moments later, he heard a shout, followed by the rapid thumps of multiple explosions.
“Now!”
He turned the corner and found a billowing tower of fire blocking the far end of the street. The Imperial soldiers had their shields raised, their backs facing Broland and his squad. Broland reached the rear flank and sliced low, sweeping his blade across the hamstrings of three enemy fighters. The men cried out as they fell to the street, and he leaped forward to strike again.
The other Kantarian fighters attacked with blades slashing and thrusting in a melee of blood, shouts, and screams. The invaders turned to counter the attack but faltered when doors along the lane opened and Kantarian soldiers leaped out with blades flashing.
In a minute, half the Imperial force was down. Broland pressed forward at the head of a wedge with his blade slashing repeatedly, his shield deflecting blows as the enemy faltered and tried to retreat but were unable to do so with the fire behind them and attacks coming from all sides.
Suddenly, the man in the gold tabard was there – the Imperial captain.
The man came at Broland, his sword flicking in. Broland knocked it away, but not quick enough as the blade slashed across his stomach, cutting through his leather armor in a streak of blood. The wound was shallow, but it burned.
Broland held his shield closer, blocking the next strike before countering with his own. The man’s face was as an intense scowl, his eyes a mixture of determination and fury. His blade flicked again and Broland redirected it. The sound of fighting around them was furious, the street slick with blood, but the man would not yield.
Tiring, Broland made a desperate thrust. The man twisted and countered, but his thrust was deflected by Broland’s shield. The man’s shoulder dipped, and Broland lowered his shield to block an expected low strike but missed when the man swept his sword upward. The sword slid beneath the plates on Broland’s shoulder and bit deep enough to lodge into the bone. He cried out, and the man jerked his sword free.
Blood spurted from the gash and Broland’s shield suddenly was too heavy to lift. His shoulder throbbed with searing pain as blood seeped down his arm. Sensing the advantage, the man attacked with fury, forcing Broland backward. Broland’s heel struck a downed soldier and he stumbled, falling to land on the dead man. His sword slipped from his palm and tumbled away. The enemy captain leaped forward, his sword coming down in a killing thrust. Broland rolled aside, the sword just missing him as it buried deep into the dead soldier.
A lost dagger lay on the street inches from Broland’s hand. He grabbed the hilt, rolled again, and made a desperate throw. The blade pierced the enemy captain’s eye, burying deep. His head jerked backward and he staggered, swinging his sword blindly. The man fell to one knee and lifted his sword in defiance before tipping sideways. He crashed to the street, dead.
Broland gritted his teeth and sat upright. The slice across his stomach burned, the deep gash in his arm throbbed, and his arm was drenched with blood. A wave a nausea hit him, and the world spun. He fell to his side, his head landing on a dead Imperial soldier. There he lay as the sound of the surrounding fight faded. The fires were dying down while a line of Kantarian guards waited beyond the flames, the heat twisting the image. His eyes drifted closed but he forced them open, fearing he would never wake if he allowed himself to sleep. Every
thing was blurry, his head lost in a fog of pain. He was losing too much blood, but he lacked the strength to do anything about it. The fog thickened, his eyelids growing too heavy to lift as darkness crept in, consuming him.
Brock’s staff whirled, his body constantly moving as he hit one Imperial soldier after another. Backed by the Power rune, his strength, speed, and stamina made him and his squad super human. So long as the enemy couldn’t hit him with a musket shot, arrow, or sword, he was unstoppable.
A musket flashed toward him and he smashed it, sending the weapon flipping through the air. A sweep took the musketeer’s legs out, breaking them as he collapsed with a scream.
Leaping, Brock landed behind a group of enemies clustered around a squad of Kantarian soldiers. He swept the legs out from five men with one strike, the men falling in a pile of broken bones and dropped weapons. Another swing hit three men in the helmets, knocking them all unconscious. He leaped again and slammed his staff down across three aimed muskets as he landed, knocking the weapons to the ground and breaking the hands, fingers, and wrists of those who held them.
All around, men and women were dying. Hundreds, if not thousands, already lay dead. It was time to stop the killing.
With giant, running leaps, he covered hundreds of feet in the passing of a breath. He leaped again and landed on top of Irongrip’s Rock, the towering formation in the middle of the field. To the north, the battle raged. To the south, the city burned.
Brock pulled a chunk of glowstone from his pocket and traced two runes on the rock. He then embraced the surrounding energy of Chaos, drawing it in. He had saved his magic for this moment. The storm raged inside him and, still, he absorbed Chaos, more than he had ever held. Almost blinded by the tempest within, Brock poured the magic into one rune and then the other, falling to one knee and nearly fainting from the wave of exhaustion that followed.
The first rune pulsed and faded. The rock formation flared bright white. Realizing what would happen, Brock leaped away as the other augmentation came to fruition. A massive crack resounded across the battlefield, and bright glowing rock shards sprayed through the air, some pelting him as he sailed away.
39
Mayhem
Ignoring the pain from his broken cheekbone, Percy ran through the shadows, watching the battle unfold. The sight was total mayhem with the Imperial forces broken into fragmented, disorganized groups. Neither Mollis nor Brillens had considered attacks coming from multiple fronts. The result was disastrous. Little time remained to reorganize before it was too late.
When he came upon the burning, twisted remains of the odd vehicle he had seen earlier, Percy felt relief that something had gone right. It wasn’t until he circled the wreckage that he discovered what the explosion had rendered.
Hundreds of Imperial soldiers lay dead, some blown apart, others burnt husks. Among them was a dead horse, impaled by a chunk of metal. Mollis lay beside the horse, the man staring at nothing, his neck twisted in an unnatural position. A healer in a purple cloak was kneeling beside Mollis. She looked up at Percy, their eyes meeting. The woman shook her head. Mollis was dead.
Since Mollis would be no help, Percy ran down the gravel road in search of Brillens.
He passed a cluster of swordsmen who were fighting a single Kantarian soldier. The man’s sword sliced, cutting through his attackers without resistance. Chaos magic, Percy thought. He must die.
Percy slowed, drew three arrows, and loosed them in rapid succession. Each arrow found its mark, two striking the man in the back, the third in the hamstring. The man stumbled to a knee and a sword sliced in, decapitating him. With the soldier dead, Percy ran forward to continue his search.
He finally spotted Brillens shouting orders to his musketeers. A female soldier in Kantarian armor leaped high, sailing into the air with her sword ready. Musketeers fired, shots striking the woman and causing her to jerk in a series of rapid lurches. She fell to the ground, and Imperial forces converged on her.
Percy called out, “Brillens,” as he drew near.
The man turned toward him, lifted his hand to acknowledge Percy, and his head jerked backward. An arrow stuck out from the man’s cheek, and his eyes widened in horror. Another arrow buried itself in the man’s chest. As Brillens fell from the saddle, Percy turned to search out the assailant.
The Kantarian archer was a middle-aged man with dark hair and hawk-like eyes. Percy loosed two arrows before the man could spot him. The first took the man in the shoulder, the second buried in the man’s stomach. The Kantarian archer fell to his knees, and Percy rushed him and buried his dagger in the man’s temple. He pulled it free and moved along, seeking his next target.
The battlefield bloomed with light, as if the sun had suddenly risen. The roar of battle fell to a hush, the moans of the wounded and dying the only sounds. A massive crack sounded from the direction of the light as bits of brightly glowing rock blasted from it and rained on the battlefield.
When Percy’s eyes adjusted, the sight left his jaw slack and his mind struggling to accept.
Somehow, a massive, shining monster of white rock stood before him. On two legs, the rock monster advanced toward the heart of the battle, emitting a grinding rumble with each step. The ground shook, and troops retreated in haste to avoid being crushed by thousands of tons of rock. A boulder-sized first smashed into the ground, sending a spray of dirt into the air. While others retreated in fear, Percy found himself rooted, transfixed as his mind grappled with what his eyes witnessed.
Muskets fired, arrows loosed, all striking the rock monster. None had any effect. Perhaps flashbombs could damage it, but Percy doubted any remained. He hadn’t heard an explosion in some time.
At that moment, an explosion came from somewhere deep inside the city. Sculdin, Percy thought. He is taking the citadel.
Bows and muskets were lowered as everyone realized they could do no damage to the monster. Soldiers backed away from the glowing abomination. The shadow of a man suddenly appeared on top of the white, glowing rock, and the monster halted a mere hundred feet before Percy.
With a staff raised high, the man on the rock monster bellowed, “Stop!”
A heavy silence fell over the battlefield.
“Lay down your weapons. You do not need to die today. Enough have already paid that price.”
Silence.
“I will say it one last time. Lay down your weapons. You cannot win, so why die? Is it worth your life so the Empire can further its conquest?”
Imperial troops began throwing down their weapons.
“No!” Percy shouted.
Nobody listened.
Rage built up inside Percy. He would not allow the twisted magic of Chaos to win. Rather than dropping his bow, he fired three arrows at the man on the living rock.
The first shot took the man in the arm, the second in the thigh, the third in the chest. The man staggered, but he did not fall. After cries of shock, a hush fell over the crowd who stared in transfixed shock. And then, they all gasped.
The arrow in the man’s arm popped out and fell, leaving a trail of blood. The man lurched and the arrow in his leg came out on its own and flew toward the crowd below. When the last arrow burst from the man’s chest, blood bubbled from the wound. The blood stopped, and the three wounds closed on their own as the crowd remained transfixed in stunned silence.
“What in the name of Issal?” Percy exclaimed.
“I, King Brock, demand that you throw down your weapons.” The man on the rock commanded. “As you can see, Issal has healed me, for he wishes the killing to end.”
The use of Issal’s name stirred Percy’s rage. How dare one who wields the evil of Chaos even mention God?
Percy again drew an arrow, this time aiming for the man’s head. Focusing on his target, he pulled the bowstring back, and his arm suddenly lurched forward, his arrow falling short and striking the rock beast. He looked down and found an arrow poking through his forearm.
“What?”
&n
bsp; He staggered as pain seared his neck. Falling to one knee, his hand went to his neck and he felt another arrow. Blood bubbled up inside his throat. He coughed and choked. Fear struck him – fear of death, fear he had done something to disappoint Issal, fear he might not be rewarded in the next life.
Someone stepped in front of him – a female form who eclipsed the light.
“You lost, Percy,” Chuli said. “The first arrow was for Darnya and Simone, who you murdered. It was also for Quinn, who you betrayed.” She stepped closer and snarled, “The last arrow, the one in your throat, that was for Thiron, the archer you killed moments ago.”
A choking, blood-filled cough was the only reply Percy could muster before he fell face-down and died.
40
A Miracle
Cassie slipped through the battlefield, careful to avoid swinging weapons. Here and there, she would find a wounded Kantarian or Tantarri warrior and heal them before moving along. Each time, the person would look around in shock, likely believing their recovery a miracle. Saving lives felt good, and she knew she was making a difference.
She then spotted Thiron, firing arrows toward an Imperial officer on horseback. An enemy arrow hit Thiron in the shoulder, another in his stomach, sending him to his knees. Before Cassie could react, someone ran in and stabbed Thiron in the temple before hurrying off.
Cassie rushed forward, ducking beneath a sword that almost clipped her, and slid in beside the fallen ranger.
Thiron’s angular eyes were open, and blood ran down the side of his face. Cassie put her hand on his forehead, but the man was already dead.
A bright glow flared, the light painful to her heightened senses. Cassie shielded her eyes and willed them to adjust. Moments passed, and she heard a loud crack.
When she looked up again through squinting eyes, a massive, glowing rockpile was advancing toward her. The rock monster slammed a fist into the ground and stopped just over a hundred feet away.
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