by Sam Bowring
‘Close the door!’ Fahren yelled. ‘There are too many for you to fight them all!’
Bel bellowed his indignation and swung his sword. There could never be too many. He slammed the door shut nonetheless.
‘Stand back!’ ordered Fahren and Bel stalked away. The mage made a circular action with his hands and there came a great grinding noise. A disc of rock lifted from the roof, cracking to pieces as it did. Fahren’s hands shot forward and the pieces hurled against the door, driving it into its hinges and piling up against it. Almost immediately came a thumping on the other side.
‘It will take me some time to channel enough power into the spell,’ called Fahren as he moved towards the Breath. ‘I must not be interrupted. You must protect me.’
He fell to his knees before the great spout, raising hands that glowed white as he built up power. Bel strode to stand over him, watching the skies and the door, his sword jumpy in his hand. Pebbles on top of the rock pile wobbled as those behind the door strained to open it.
‘Get axes!’ came a muffled shout.
A group of Graka appeared at the edge of the roof. They spotted him and Fahren immediately, but did not yet swoop towards them. Another pair appeared, beating their wings more heavily, and after a moment Bel saw why – each had an arm hooked under that of a Black Goblin, who hung between them in the air. As soon as they brought him over the edge, he twisted free and landed lightly on all fours like a cat. Astoundingly, a butterfly sailed after him to land on his shoulder. He rose smoothly to his feet, revealing a sword and a brace of daggers hanging around his waist.
‘My my,’ he said in a dusky voice devoid of emotion. ‘Long time since I clapped eyes on you, my boy.’ He padded forward, the sword leaping into his grip, and arched a hairless eyebrow at Fahren. ‘What’s your mage doing there?’
‘Destroying you and all your people,’ said Bel.
Tyrellan bared his fangs. ‘Get him!’ he shouted, and the Graka dived.
Bel held his ground, knowing he could not leave Fahren exposed. He drummed this fact into his head repeatedly, forcibly stopping the path of his sword as it tried to lead him away, resisting the urge to dance amongst the whirling bodies. Instead, he rooted his feet to the ground and let them come to him, each breaking against his steel. As the last Graka fell into the pile of bodies before him, Tyrellan watched him, still and silent.
‘Knotty fellows you have around here,’ Bel said, and poked a dead Graka with his sword. ‘I guess they mark the line. Step over them and die.’
Tyrellan padded forward, halting just shy of the heap of dead Graka. ‘Here?’ he asked. ‘Here is as far as I may tread? Very well.’
His hand moved deceptively and suddenly a dagger flashed towards Bel, heading between his legs towards Fahren’s back. Bel flicked his sword, managing to swipe it out of the air, sending it clattering away over the stone. He lashed out, but Tyrellan didn’t move, and the sword passed a hair’s breadth from the tip of the goblin’s nose.
Tyrellan sneered. ‘Seems you were right,’ he said. ‘That is indeed the line.’
He turned his back and walked casually across the roof to retrieve his dagger. Behind Bel, Fahren’s mumbling got louder and energy crackled.
‘Hurry up, High Mage,’ Bel hissed.
Tyrellan stooped to pick up his weapon, then was suddenly charging with daggers flying. Three points of steel and a sword tip came at Bel as Tyrellan leaped. Bel managed to turn all three daggers aside with a well-timed arc, while catching Tyrellan’s sword on his breastplate with a juddering clang. Tyrellan hit the ground and rolled, his sword flashing at Bel’s feet. Bel jumped and slashed, but confusion seized him. He could not find the right path for his sword to travel and kill this target, only to defend himself. Another dagger came from a new angle and he kicked it, with his boot just a handspan away from Fahren’s face. It spun into the Breath and he didn’t hear it land.
Tyrellan came at him again, slashing and then darting away, staying out of Bel’s self-imposed reach. After the fourth pass Bel roared, ‘You’re not one with time to waste, goblin!’
‘It is done!’ cried Fahren. ‘The spell is cast!’
Bel felt a wet spray hit his back. Now, urged his frenzy, you no longer need to protect the mage. With a roar he charged forward, his sudden change in tack catching Tyrellan off guard. The goblin was smashed backwards as blades fell so thickly that each combatant seemed to possess more than one. The butterfly fluttered between them, and Bel’s blade rebounded from it as solidly as if it hit iron. He took no time to wonder at such strangeness, and a moment later their swords locked. Bel reached out with his free hand, seized Tyrellan under the arm and hurled him away across the roof. The goblin landed not far from where Fahren lay, exhausted. He raised his orb eyes to the funnel of the Breath, blinking as raindrops fell on his face. Above them, the Breath seemed to be misting away, losing its shape.
‘What have you done!’ howled Tyrellan, leaping to his feet.
The rain grew heavier, a sheet of water expanding outwards, while torrents of water began to cascade off the roof. Lightning cracked, making Tyrellan’s fangs gleam as his face twisted to pure hate.
‘In a storm you were born,’ he hissed. ‘In a storm you will die.’ He sprang towards Bel.
Time seemed to slow and, finally, Bel could see the path. Calmly he bent his knees, then brought his sword up to meet the goblin’s. As soon as he felt the downward pressure of Tyrellan’s blow, he pushed upwards from the ground, lifting his opponent. As the goblin passed overhead, Bel pushed up with his sword and simultaneously punched a hand into Tyrellan’s stomach. The goblin turned head over heels, his sword falling from his grasp as he reached to snatch at a spire as he sailed past – but he was too far away. He made no sound as he travelled out over the edge of the roof and disappeared into the downpour.
Bel stared after him for a moment, finding it oddly bittersweet that such a challenging fight was over. Then he shook his head and started coming back to himself.
‘Fahren!’ he called, running to the mage’s side. ‘Are you all right?’
There was a crash from inside the doorway – those on the other side had managed to pull down the door. Rocks began to shift from the top of the pile.
‘I will be,’ wheezed Fahren. ‘Just have to catch my breath.’
‘Call for the whelkling,’ said Bel. ‘Do it now.’
Fahren smiled. ‘Already did.’
A booming sounded out of the rain and the whelkling skidded to a stop on the wet roof.
‘Good man,’ said Bel, and hoisted Fahren onto its back. ‘Now tell it to take us back to Holdwith.’
The whelkling clumped to the edge of the roof and slipped off just as the last rocks fell free of the doorway. It dropped sickeningly and Bel felt his gizzards rise into his mouth. He clutched desperately to the harness as they scythed downwards, the rain hammering them solidly. In his hands the leather was slick, and Fahren had a grim grasp around his waist that dragged at him. The onrushing wind sprayed water in his eyes, and he only just managed to keep his grip as they levelled out and began a broad curve upwards. Ahead he saw the wall of advancing rain, moving too quickly for them to overtake it. A moment later the water thickened and he could see nothing at all. He knew that this time Fahren might not have the strength to magically aid the whelkling’s flight, so he wrenched off his chest piece and let it fall. After that, there was nothing to do but hunker down, grip the harness as tight as he could and pray that they would make it back to the border.
Losara broke free, himself again, spinning in the air, feeling faintly sick, watching his other disappear. The dream swirled again.
•
He was himself once more, although not quite – rather some future possibility of himself, whose emotions he experienced as he had done with Bel, but whose actions he was powerless to direct. He
settled back behind his own eyes, watching, becoming . . .
Lalenda trailed along after him, chatting away happily about something wholly unrelated to their present situation. He heard her words on the surface somewhere, but mostly her voice just pleased him as a reminder of their companionship. It was amazing how her mind could wander, how she could talk about some silly story she’d once read about a woman who fell in love with a statue, when their situation was so serious.
They walked along a raised ridge that overlooked the Fenvarrow army. More had arrived, but still Losara wasn’t sure it was enough. At least they could choose to fight in their own land, where his – and the other mages’ – power would be stronger. Even Battu had the sense not to be goaded into crossing the border.
He stopped suddenly, causing Lalenda to bump into him. She giggled and put her hands around his waist. He stood very still, sensing something.
‘My statue,’ she whispered.
The wind picked up, rustling his cloak, and it was a cold wind indeed. Something was wrong.
‘There’s a storm on the way,’ she said, snuggling against his back.
He turned to look south, where the horizon was darkening. He stared at it until he realised it was a great fall of water, blocking out everything beyond. Something was very wrong.
‘Losara!’ came Battu’s bark, and Lalenda yelped. From the rocks billowed a shadowform, which seemed for a moment like a shark, but wavered and resolved into the silhouette of Battu. ‘Can you feel it?’ asked the dark lord.
‘Yes,’ said Losara. ‘It is as if the shadow has . . . weakened.’
‘Something has happened at Skygrip,’ said Battu distantly.
The rain came faster than any natural storm. In moments it was falling on them like a great wave breaking, and moving on towards the camps.
‘This is our enemy’s doing,’ said Battu. He sounded groggy, as if he had been dealt a grave blow. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘My body’s going to be all wet when I get back to it.’
Losara turned to shadow so quickly that Lalenda, who had been clutching him, almost stumbled off the ridge. Up he went, streaming through the raindrops, up and up into the Cloud. He sensed the spell immediately, permeating in all directions, cancerous, reaching through the Cloud like myriad bright fibres. A sort of dazed wonder came over him, and he thought vaguely that perhaps he was missing a reaction that his other would have felt in this situation.
Without hope he attacked the spell. He let his shadow self spread thin, wiping out bright fibres with his darkness. He rushed through the Cloud as broadly as he could, leaving cured paths behind him . . . but the spell seeped back in. There was no heart to it, nothing central that he could target. Worse, the spell drew power from the light above the Cloud, where the sun shone unhindered. All his mighty power was not enough. It could not even buy moments.
What should I be feeling? he wondered. Despair?
The dream swirled.
•
The goblins standing guard atop Skygrip felt the rain beginning to ease, and the flood that poured off the roof slowed to a trickle. From the sky came a lightening, and they cursed as they covered their eyes. Rays of sun hit the roof, bathing its glistening tar skin in light, warming the exposed black stone from which the Breath of the Cloud had once issued. Feeling a horror that ran to their bones, the goblins quickly fled from the roof, back into the darkness of Skygrip.
By the edge of the roof, a small shape rose. It was a butterfly, with wings of pure white edged by sky blue. It set down, and a moment later a clawed hand reached from below to hold it tightly. Sunlight touched the claw and it stopped moving. As the hole in the Cloud above expanded, the light found Tyrellan hanging by one hand from the edge of Skygrip Castle. He stared dully over Fenvarrow, seeing other spots where the rain was clearing and rays of sun were falling upon land they hadn’t touched for a thousand years. Light reached Mankow and, even from this distance, he heard a collective wail of disbelief. For a time he could not seem to find the will to pull himself up the last short distance to safety.
He cannot stand to see Fenvarrow like this, thought Losara sadly. Does he consider letting go?
‘No,’ growled Tyrellan, as if in answer to the question. ‘Not until an end finds me.’
The butterfly flapped its wings and rose, pulling Tyrellan up into the light.
The dream swirled.
•
At the top of the Teeth of Grakvak, the snow stopped swirling. On the peaks, ice began to melt. The Graka shrieked and retreated to their caves, which would soon begin to warm. Their leader told them they would be safe here, high as they were, even if the rest of Fenvarrow fell. He was later proved wrong, when Zyvanix wasps took a fancy to the elaborately carved caves.
•
In Swampwild, Mire Pixie children turned to stare at the sun. Even so young they instinctively feared it, crying as their parents bundled them up and dragged them inside huts. As they stared out of windows and through doors, the full light of day made Swampwild look strange and alien. It wasn’t their Swampwild any more.
The mud began to dry.
•
Deep in the mud, Mireforms grew dimly aware that something above was wrong. They buried deeper and hid for years, until all the mud above them had hardened; dim presences trapped in the earth.
•
The army of Fenvarrow fell in to chaos. Battu strode high and tall, bellowing orders and trying to keep order. Much as his people quailed before him, they quailed even more as the sun shone upon them. Even the steely Black Goblins quivered as heat touched their skin.
The Kainordas horde came charging across the Stone Fields, light glinting from swords and axes. At their head rode a blue-haired warrior, and, though Fenvarrow had its own blue-haired champion, he was nowhere to be seen.
Battu knew desertions would start soon, if they hadn’t already, and he raged at all to stay focused on their purpose. He could not instil as much fear as he once had, however. His connection to the power of Skygrip was broken and the strength of the shadow was fading.
It was something Losara felt as well, as he sped back to the army, travelling less easily now that sunlight shone everywhere. He erupted into form next to Battu, and even that small effort drained him.
‘Where have you been, you fool?’ growled Battu. ‘The troops need to see you, lest they break in all directions!’
Battu pushed him and he stumbled forward, dazed. He had burned so much of his power chasing the spell hopelessly through the Cloud, and now there was little shadow in his surrounds to draw on. He wandered through the ranks, letting the soldiers see him . . . but could think of nothing to call out, no encouraging words to give them hope. He stared blankly at them and they stared blankly back, their eyes hooded against the blazing light.
As the Kainordas army came onwards, Battu screamed for aerial attacks to begin. Graka rose from the ground carrying cauldrons of acid, and war engines hurled rocks and flaming balls. Archers rained arrows as the enemy got closer, and then the armies broke against each other. Losara knew a moment of pride as brave Fenvarrow folk threw themselves screaming into the fray.
He led his mages in a charge. He tried, time and again, to summon the great power he’d once possessed, but he couldn’t seem to find it anywhere. It felt as if he was missing a limb. Around him his mages fell screaming to yellow bolts or fireballs.
Scores of Fenvarrow soldiers were breaking ranks, fleeing back across the Stone Fields. Swarms of Zyvanix buzzed overhead, culling the skies of Graka and peppering the ground with needle-like arrows. Just ahead of him a great scorpion burst through a line of Black Goblins, its huge stinger juddering back and forth to spear them through, while the Saurian riding it loosed off arrows. Mireforms raged with flying tendrils and stabbing claws, and he knew that they, at least, would fight to the end. He chanced a sight of
his other – the muscular man moving with amazing agility, ducking and weaving and hacking and slashing, forever untouched by blows aimed at him.
Nearby, the Shadowdreamer sent out blue lightning, frying whole troops of Varenkai, sizzling the wings from Zyvanix, melting scorpions inside their exoskeletons. The light mages turned their focus upon him, advancing and beating back rippling waves of his power, suffusing him with light. He screamed as it came from all sides, and caught fire. Losara shuddered.
Lalenda, came a thought, and he collapsed forwards to spill into shadowform. He moved through cracks in the ground while soldiers fought above him, winding around bodies and pools of blood. He forgot about the raging battle – all that mattered was finding her. He searched and searched, until he found her shape in a corpse on the ground, and trickled around her, unable to believe. A mighty sadness welled up inside him and he pooled beneath her. He lost track of time.
He came back to himself suddenly when he realised there was silence. The slaughter had subsided and there was no doubt within him who had won the battle. Nearby came a crunching of feet and he turned his shadowy gaze to peer up from Lalenda. A short distance away stood a man in gold armour and his other. The man took off his helm and Losara recognised the Throne.
‘Cowards,’ spat Naphur. ‘To flee in such numbers.’
‘Let them flee,’ said Bel. ‘Soon there will be no corner left in this land to hide in.’
The Throne grunted in satisfaction. ‘So, we continue?’
‘Yes,’ said Bel. ‘We continue.’
•
In the following weeks, the sun wrought many changes on Fenvarrow. In Swampwild, humptoads died in dry stream beds. The blue grasses that had grown so widely lightened as they withered, and green invaders took over. The Vorthargs retreated deep into their underground lakes, where one day they would be found and cornered. Shadowmanders along the border grew disoriented, wandering from their homes until they were too weak to go on. Even on the Isle of Assedrynn, light found the tiny blue flowers that grew out of the rocks. Their petals began to curl.