by J. S. Morin
Dark as it was, she could still see the fires burning where the warlock had made his stand. She had known at once who it had to be when someone seemed to shatter the very aether around them, someone who had a draw such as she had never witnessed before. It was impressive that she could even notice the draw of a particular combatant from so far away, her tent being well back where the cannons had been before the goblins advanced them. It had left no doubt in her mind that the rumors of the return of Rashan Solaran were true. It also made her decision about the Megrenn sorcerer, Jinzan, much simpler.
As had all good little boys and girls at the Academy, Celia had studied the Empire’s history. There were dates and places and emperors’ names to remember, but nearly every student paid rapt attention when the subject turned to war. Bloody and gory and speaking of the glory of the mighty Kadrin Empire, the children could not get enough of the stories of the ancient warlocks of old. There were no defeats mentioned in the Kadrin histories; the details of those were for more advanced study by the Circle and the knights. Celia had been devastated to learn that Sir Lornhelm—whose daring rescue of Empress Euphelia some twelve hundred summers ago had set a younger Celia’s heart quickening—had been killed ignobly a few months later in a duel behind a tavern. Warlock Rashan had been different. When the legends of his exploits were peeled back by more mature versions of his life’s story, there were no secret shames to hide. The perspective given in the children’s histories remained largely intact and was merely expanded on to show his personal flaws: megalomania, ruthlessness, and a vicious and capricious temper. He was, simply, what anyone would infer a man to be who had whispered in the ears of emperors and convinced them to make war on anything their armies could reach.
If this was the Rashan of history that she witnessed before her, Celia felt that history had treated him ill. His magic was inspiring, casual in its destruction of literally thousands of goblins, as best she could estimate. Of the warlock himself, she could see no sign. There was a wall of Sources between her and the spot where he battled, and if his Source was as powerful as she expected it must be, she could still not make it out so far away.
With a warlock on the field and among the goblin army, she knew that even a dragon would not swing the balance in the goblins’ favor. Jinzan’s offer would be rendered worthless before daybreak. She needed to plan an escape.
Chapter 34 - Rashan’s Bargain
Juliana had watched from the gate down to the undercity for some time. Twice she had retreated back down the tunnel to avoid the dragon’s passes as it raked the ground with dragonfire. None of the strikes had been particularly close by, but Juliana knew little of the dragon’s abilities and limitations, and took precautions as she passed.
She had heard the crash of the great beast as it was brought to the ground amid a residential district on the wealthier side of town nearer the cliff wall. She heard the shriek of pain and surprise, the crush of stone, and various other debris being flung about. Juliana rushed back to the gate entrance and saw wings flexing and flapping, as if to test them after the dragon’s fall. She heard the smaller gout of flame sent down the street and saw the light from it, though she could not see the flame itself. Highlighted against the small fires burning in the city, she saw the dragon crane her head and look westward.
Juliana hunkered down in the entryway, trying to avoid attracting the dragon’s notice. Something was going on. The dragon had ceased her attack and was just looking out to the plains. With the dragon so near and the great bellows of dragonfire being spewed forth, Juliana was too close to massive shifts in the aether to have noticed Rashan’s arrival. She watched the dragon in rapt fascination. With a closer view and the dragon still, she could see what a beautiful creature it was: sleek, graceful, and majestic.
Her musings were broken when the creature turned suddenly in her direction. Juliana ducked and pressed herself against the stones of the arched gateway, but the dragon paid her no heed. Jadefire extended her wings and, with a great heave, thrust herself aloft, wings raising a cloud of dust and debris as she cleared the site of her tumble and gained altitude. Juliana got an excellent view of the dragon’s underbelly—a slightly lighter shade of the deep green scales about the rest of her—as the beast passed above her toward the top of the glacier. She heard a great crunch of snow and ice as the dragon settled above her location.
I hope the wall can hold her weight along with that of ice and snow, Juliana thought.
* * * * * * * *
Iridan ached. He could move—that much of him worked at least—but that was the most he could credit himself with. He remembered the layout of the city well enough that he would be able to find his way to the mine entrance easily enough. That was not the problem he faced.
Actually it was two and perhaps even three problems rolled up into one giant problem that he was preparing to deal with. He had exhausted himself, body and Source, in the battles for the wall. He was only now feeling up to drawing aether again, should he have to, and it seemed that he would have to. He could walk and possibly even jog a bit, but his aching muscles probably did not have a run in them. If it was to be a race to the mine entrance, he did not like his chances.
Once he got there, he was to stop the human traitor who had taken up with the goblins. It seemed safe to assume that the goblins had not taken on the least sorcerer they could find among the Megrenn, so he was expecting to face a true foe when he got there.
Iridan was slouching in a chair in the sitting room closest to the castle’s door, where the soldiers assigned to oversee the retreat of the downed sorcerers had been bringing them. The sitting room was littered with spent sorcerers. Two of the lesser Circle sorcerers were laid out on blankets, unconscious, possibly dead. Caldrax was about, but he was up and alert, seemingly having withdrawn himself from the battle before his last energies were spent. If any of the goblin forces breached the castle entrance, it was comforting to Iridan that someone at least was fit to put up a resistance. Faolen was laid out on a chaise, unmoving. He rose to take water when the servants brought it, so Iridan knew that he was at least still living.
As for Iridan, he was neither in the best nor worst shape of the lot of them, but he was the one who had received orders directly from the Warlock of the Empire himself—and he was the one training to follow in the way of the warlocks. Iridan forced himself to his feet and stretched his back, working out the stiffened muscles that had settled into unhelpful places as he recuperated.
“Caldrax, watch over them,” Iridan ordered, making clear his intent to depart. “I have a task from the warlock. There is a sorcerer trying to reach the upper mines. I must go to stop him.”
“You seem in no condition,” Caldrax said. “Do not waste yourself in combat in your current state.” The older sorcerer looked haggard when Iridan turned to look at him, and scared.
I suppose he would rather I was here to defend this part of the castle instead of just him alone, Iridan thought.
Instead Iridan chose not to answer at all but made for the castle’s front entrance. The guards obliged when he ordered the portcullis opened for him, despite the fighting that grew nearer by the moment. The Kadrin troops were fighting a slow withdrawal action, never holding ground at too great a cost, but making the goblins pay for their advance every pace of the way.
Iridan’s back groaned in protest as he ducked under the portcullis; the guards had lifted it just enough for him to pass beneath. The streets were deserted in the immediate area of the castle but did not seem as if they would remain so for long. The fighting was close by and growing closer. The chittering cries of the goblins and the screams and yells of the Kadrins mixed together with the sounds of steel striking steel and occasionally stone. There was light of a sort, but it was haphazard and not nearly adequate. The fires of collateral damage were too far and too little, and the starry sky grew dimmer as the smoke from those fires wafted upward and became thicker. Iridan switched over to aether-vision.
Rashan had
warned that the sorcerer was camouflaging himself, so even in good lighting, it seemed a better bet to watch in the aether than in the light. His aether-vision was keen enough that he could make out the streets and buildings by the disruptions in the aether’s flow, so he worried but little about stumbling blindly. As a bonus, it allowed him to keep an eye toward the advancing goblins infantry as well and keep well clear of them.
The entrance to the mines was not far. The castle was built largely into the north mountainous wall of the city, just a short way from the defensive walls. The entrance to the mines lay between the two, the primary concern of the original lords of Raynesdark—who were no dukes in those early days—and the primary reason for the construction of the walls in the first place. The gold of the upper mines was the life’s blood of Raynesdark in those bygone days.
Iridan saw the mine entrance as he hurried—not quite jogging but rushing his steps at least. The mine seemed undisturbed, with no excess traces of aether to suggest that someone powerful of Source had passed there. The entrance was of stone “timbers,” with runes all about them like much of the old, preserved architecture of the city. There was a pair of rusted iron rails running out from it, which had been less well preserved. There was no debris or refuse kept in the mine entrance, and it seemed well preserved, though Iridan knew not why.
If no one has passed through yet, I am in time to stop him, Iridan reasoned.
He found a small civic garden a few dozen paces away and crouched behind a hardy evergreen shrub. The shrub’s own Source was unimpressive, but it was the strongest of the meager plants that the Raynesdark folk grew, and large enough to hide him from light as well as obscure his Source some. He began to hold back his aether to husband it for the expected battle, as well as to disguise its power.
He had not long to wait, as he saw a pair of Sources coming from the direction of the wall. One was a lizard of some sort, being used as a mount. The other was his prey.
With neither parley nor warning, Iridan struck from ambush, loosing a bolt of aether with most of what he had held. The blast was considerable and silently cast, one of the spells Iridan had first learned to cast in such a manner. He took the head clean off the lizard that the sorcerer rode, and the sorcerer himself was thrown to the earth some paces distant. The invader’s shielding spell had shattered but had saved his life. Iridan had eschewed such defenses himself lest they be seen by an alert foe before he struck.
With surprise lost, Iridan quickly saw to his own defensive shields, quickly armoring himself silently in aether. The Megrenn sorcerer was no fool, though, taking the initiative and attacking immediately, before even seeing to the replacement of his own shields.
“Kolo ketenxu mafira.”
Still lying on his side from where Iridan’s spell had hurled him, the Megrenn sorcerer made a claw-like gesture down. Iridan was unfamiliar with the spell but learned the gist of it quickly enough when the ground turned liquidy beneath his feet. With no magic ready to support him, Iridan sunk quickly into the soupy soil.
A second gesture, the complement to the first, solidified the ground again with Iridan stuck chest deep, his arms trapped below the surface before he was able to raise them.
Iridan drew as hard as he could, his Source aching with the effort. The Megrenn sorcerer was already launching into a new spell, and Iridan needed to do something or he was going to be a stationary target for it.
“Hakvea golotanu dexjahi ecalamu,” the Megrenn intoned, drawing himself to his feet.
Iridan knew the spell and diverted all the aether he had just drawn into reinforcing his shield construct. He hoped it would be enough.
His adversary formed a sphere with his two hands, and within grew a distortion in the air. Once it grew to the size of a wheel of cheese, it shot forth, crossing the distance to Iridan in the beat of a swallow’s wing.
* * * * * * * *
Jinzan watched in satisfaction as the apprentice in warlock’s garb was torn asunder, the top half of his body gone to gore and splintered bone where it had once protruded above the soil.
Satisfied that he had no further opposition, Jinzan rechecked the contents of his pockets and headed into the mines. There was no light within, so he quickly made one for himself, not trusting to his aether-vision. He had no map of the mines, so he needed to be alert for any signs of his direction. The goblin advance was proceeding well, but since the arrival of the demon—Is it truly Rashan Solaran, or just a descendant?—he would bet no amount on their chances, let alone the success of his whole mission.
* * * * * * * *
“Your little ones are doing poorly, demon,” Nihaxtukali commented, gazing down at the city far below.
She and Rashan stood upon the crest of the Neverthaw Glacier, the only flat spot around that offered the vantage of the whole battle that they were looking for. Despite her protestations against the cold earlier, the dragon was thankful to be able to bury her maimed forelimb in the ice to sooth the shooting pains it gave her. The icy cold on the rest of her seemed a small price now for such relief.
“Perhaps,” Rashan answered, speaking draconic. “But we will not settle this until one side surrenders or is wiped out. I have trust in my followers.”
He was not three paces from the dragon, each on guard against treachery by the other. Despite his fears of the mighty beast, his mind tangled and untangled plots of how he might slay it, bargain or no.
The dragon knew that Rashan’s magic was formidable, possibly able to cut through her nigh-impervious scales or even affect her monolithic Source itself. She also knew that the demon was quick afoot and might well dodge claw or tail or even dragonfire as he worked his magic against her.
For his part, Rashan knew that the claws and teeth of the great dragon were little concern to him. His physical body was a tool of his Source, not the reverse, and despite horrifying wounds, he would be able to fight on. The dragonfire was his real fear. While fire was a power that had many counters in the ways of magic, dragonfire was mostly aether, borne on flame. It could cut through wards and stone alike, and burn things that no other fire would harm. Caught in a full blast of it, he was almost sure to perish; even his shields could not withstand more than a short or incidental burst of the stuff.
What Nihaxtukali did not know, however, was the true nature of Heavens Cry. His boast about Loramar was the first gambit he had made in his thoughts of bringing the dragon down. When she claimed never to have heard of the necromancer—whose few score winters of prominence could easily have escaped the notice of the ages-old dragon—he knew that she must have been ignorant of Heavens Cry as well, for their tales were interwoven too closely. Sadly it would not be so easy to kill a dragon with the blade. Its poisons would not do much to dragon scales, certainly not quickly enough to make use of in combat. Getting Nihaxtukali to inhale the vapors might work, but that was an uncertain ploy. He needed something better before he would strike. He might only get one chance.
* * * * * * * *
With the dragon’s withdrawal, the goblins pressed the attack, no longer fearing the collateral carnage their deity was wont to inflict. Brannis had seen Jadefire fly up to the glacier and had noticed Rashan follow shortly thereafter.
When did he arrive? And what is he scheming at? Brannis wondered when no sign of fighting broke out between the bloodthirsty demon and the green-scaled force of nature. I do not know how he got the dragon to stop attacking, but I like our chances better against the army of goblins than against that beast.
“Fall back! Reform ranks!” Brannis shouted.
With the dragon out of the calculation, the battle could be fought on Kadrin terms, no longer dodging around buildings to keep out of the path of the dragonfire that had claimed all too many of Duke Pellaton’s men already.
“Sir Garen, take command of the north half and have them fall back to the castle. I shall hold the main gate to the undercity.”
The fighting was chaotic. The goblins were still equipped with climbing claws
from their initial ascent of the mountainside. Now that the battle was being fought in the streets, the goblin soldiers were taking advantage of the urban terrain and scaling the walls of buildings to gain advantage on the Kadrins, who were staying at ground level.
A spear clanged against the side of Brannis’s helmet. The wards on the armor prevented him from even feeling the blow.
How many times over would I have died today had I been armored as my knights? The soldiers wear just mail, and the militia just what they have for sturdy clothes.
Brannis saw the goblin whose spear had sought him, on the third-story balcony of a nearby house. Brannis dug Avalanche into the ground and gave a flick of his wrist. The irresistible blade uprooted paving stones and flung them skyward in a spray in the direction of the spear-thrower, who ducked back inside the building. Brannis paid it no mind and turned his attentions back to the organization of his forces.
The Kadrins were reforming, but slowly. The goblins outnumbered them badly and were taking their toll on the scattered human fighters, sealing off many pockets of defenders and hedging them in, cutting them down. There were enough, though, that two fronts could both make a disciplined retreats back to the castle and undercity gates, respectively.
Brannis stood at the fore of the retreat, keeping a wide swath around him clear of invaders. The goblins were no fools and made every effort to avoid the gold-armored purveyor of death, covered in much blood of their kind. Spear-and-shield was a slow fighting style, easy to defend with and wearying to push back. Numbers. It was all down to numbers, as the Kadrin soldiers could only hold out so long against exhaustion and the cold.