They struck the ground with punishing force in a still-ruined section of the northern portion of the city. Mott, though he took his share of the impact, never stopped tearing and scrabbling at Myn. The tips of his spidery legs worked like the picks of a mining team, chattering and chipping at the same concentrated section of Myn’s side until finally they broke through her scales.
The dragon howled in pain, throwing her mouth wide. A small shiny stone, one that had been pinned carefully beneath her tongue until now, flew free and clattered to the deserted street.
Myn tore herself away from Mott and rolled to her feet, collecting herself while Mott retreated again to let the latest damage mend itself. As he did, he clacked to the dislodged stone and sniffed at it. It wasn’t until she saw Mott nudge it with his nose that Myn realized she’d lost Garr’s gift. Seeing him touching the prized possession caused her to grow rigid with anger.
Mott glanced up and saw the look of challenge in Myn’s eyes. He grinned mischievously, scuttling over the stone and raising his two foremost spider legs over it. Myn released a warning rumble, but this only seemed to encourage the creature. With a fiendish chitter of glee, he stomped and smashed at the stone, driving it into the street.
The sound that came next was enough to give even the manic familiar pause.
Myn’s claws cut deep into the stone of the street and she drew in a breath, releasing it in a roar of utter burning fury. Eyes gleaming with white-hot rage, she broke into a charge. Mott’s ears flattened to his head, his eyes widened, and he pulled his neck back. The canine features and posture gave him the uncanny look of a mutt who had just discovered he wasn’t the biggest dog in the pack.
#
Myranda finally unleashed the spell she’d been crafting. Though she’d had great success working off-the-cuff effects by carefully weaving her will into the elements around her, something that would remain strong and focused to its task even after she’d moved on was another matter entirely. Deacon made it look like child’s play, but it was akin to building a castle without any planning and expecting it to stand against a storm.
She poured the last dose of her will into place. The effect was, to her great relief, immediate. The rampaging spirits had left her with more than a few ghostly scrapes along her arms and across her face as she tried to focus, but it was worth it. Where once they had passed through the restored walls of the repaired section of the city, now they clashed and rebounded from them. Myranda had imbued the physical structures with a measure of substance even in the spectral realm, allowing them to offer the same protection from spirits as they did from creatures of flesh and blood.
A few of the spirits had been trapped inside, but her subjects were no fools, and a spirit is no fonder of being a prisoner than a living being. The instant a door or window was opened, the insubstantial form swept clear. Slowly the spirits began to withdraw from the inhabited part of the city. One of the enchantments she’d layered upon the stone was a twist of magic that had roughly the same effect as a bright light cast into a cluster of insects. It filled the spirits with unease, repelling them.
Myranda stumbled as the focus of her mind finally released. The borrowed strength was all but gone now, and judging from the almost searing glow in her mind’s eye that was surging from the remains of the castle, Turiel was anything but defeated. She tried to head for the palace again, but her limbs were slow to obey, numbed as they were by the cold and the attacks she’d weathered.
“Myranda,” her father called, rushing to her side.
“Is everyone all right?” Myranda asked.
“People are frightened, and some people have felt the touch of these… things in the air. But the cries have died down and no one has called out for the healers,” he said. “Myranda, you cannot push yourself this way. If you are too weak, you must leave it to others.”
“The others are doing all they can. I must do the same,” she said. “What have you heard of the troops?”
“It isn’t good. Things have grown tense. Troops are streaming to the front. The region is a powder keg. Spotters say just across the border, Crestview has called up a whole regiment of soldiers. We’ve been forced to do the same. If there is any sign of hostility at the former front, there will be a full-scale battle.”
Myranda put her fingers to her face, trying to clear her thoughts. “Father… if I were to go to the front, do you believe I could command the troops? Could I maintain discipline, even in the face of orders that may be against all they believe?”
“Myranda, these are Alliance soldiers. They will follow your orders.”
“Good… then stand ready… Turiel’s focus is shifting, I can feel it. She will move to the front, and I truly do not believe we will be able to stop her. If she makes it there, I must follow, and I must make it clear, crystal clear, that our troops are dedicated to stopping her and her creations. The Tressons are not the enemy. Turiel is. This is not an attack by the north upon the south, this is an attack by a madwoman against our whole world. We are allies. Do you believe you can make the soldiers understand?”
“They won’t need to understand. They will do as they are told because you have earned their trust and respect and they have pledged their loyalty to you.”
Myranda nodded, then raised her eyes to the churning spirits above. Now repelled by the shelters keeping the people of the city safe, they seemed drawn instead to the ruins of the castle. The ground shook and rattled with unseen impacts. Some came from the north, where Myn’s savage roars and Mott’s startled yelps told the story of at least one battle that was going well for the heroes. The rest seemed to originate from below the ground itself. One by one the spirits slipped down through the debris of the castle, joining the source of the battle.
She turned to her father. “If you’re satisfied the people here will be safe, take some men and wait by the southern gate. Turiel… she’s terrifyingly powerful. I can feel her will from here, the instructions and commands she is giving. If we can’t stop them, something will be coming this way, and it will be moving fast.”
“We will be ready,” Greydon said. He touched her arm. “Be careful, Myranda.”
“I’ll try,” Myranda said, rushing toward the castle. “But the time for care is a rare luxury these days.”
She’d only just quickened to a sprint when Ivy skidded out of a side alley and nearly crashed into her. The malthrope was carrying a bundle of cloth and tugging at the twine that secured it.
“Myranda!” Ivy said, startled by her near collision.
“Ivy, what’s going on in the castle?”
She answered while keeping pace with Myranda, still distracted by the cloth bundle. “Ether and Turiel are fighting, and Turiel is starting to wake up the bits and pieces of nearmen that were in the catacombs. Or put them together. Or make new ones. I’m not entirely sure, but there are a lot of them. A hundred at least. … Come on! Stupid knot!” She finally gave up on finesse and dragged her claws through the twine, sheering it easily into pieces and revealing the contents of the bundle.
Two stunning and ornate blades had been carefully wrapped in the cloth, each with a horizontal grip, a wide blade, and a faintly glowing gem set in the center. They were curious weapons crafted specifically for Ivy, something their designer called Soul Blades.
Grinning like a child given permission to play with one of her favorite toys, Ivy clutched the grips and brandished the weapons. The gems took on an increasingly intense glow, the color yellow with pulses taking it closer to orange at times. Matching blades that were nearly long enough to drag the ground continued the line of her arm, and elegant carvings and etchings made them as much the appearance of museum pieces as weapons of war. Such was the hallmark of their maker, a man called Desmeres Lumineblade.
She had only just properly armed herself, and hence had a moment to spare a glance toward the castle again, when Myranda held out a hand and stopped her from running.
The wizard and her ally stared at the ring of rubb
le that separated the courtyard battleground from the rest of the city. Something was cresting over it… No… many things were cresting over it. They weren’t the intangible spirits that had caused so much damage thus far. In fact, with each new dim form crawling over the rubble, there seemed to be one fewer of the floating spirits. These were human forms.
“The nearmen…” Myranda said, her voice hushed. “She’s… Turiel is allowing the spirits to take the nearmen as hosts. She’s given flesh to the lingering remnants of this city, echoes of lost lives. Things that know only hatred and fear…”
“Why would she do it?” Ivy said, taking a steadying breath and brandishing her blades. A telling dose of blue briefly swirled within the gems.
“To free her mind of the burden of controlling the nearmen? To draw our attentions away from her? What does it matter? If they truly are fueled by the desire for revenge, then they now have all they need to take that revenge. A hundred men in Alliance armor rushing in a blood rage for the border, and with troops already tense for war… we can’t let them by, Ivy. Not one.”
Ivy nodded, her eyes gleaming almost as much as her blades, clearly pleased to have a simple task with a simple solution.
“Okay then…”
#
Ether was rationing her power, trying to rely as much as possible on physical strength rather than magic. She spent most of her time as stone, absorbing attacks and answering them in kind. Only when it would reap tremendous rewards did she squander the power to flash to flame, and even then only briefly. In any other battle the tactic would have brought the clash to an end minutes ago. At this time, and in this place, Turiel was inexhaustible. Even so, she was only mortal. A physical form such as hers could only channel so much power at a time, and it could only endure so much damage. Every blow, even a glancing one, took its toll on the necromancer.
“The gods chose wisely when they chose you as their protectors,” Turiel said, her voice strained as she barely deflected a blow that could well have ended her.
The shapeshifter didn’t dignify her with banter or threats in response, choosing instead to keep up the intensity of her attacks. At the edge of her mind she became aware that things were not progressing as she’d expected. As the necromancer grew more desperate and closer to her limit, her attacks should have become more frenzied and frequent, or so Ether anticipated. She expected the spirits to be sicced upon her like attack dogs, or for the nearmen being drawn from the wreckage to hurl themselves upon her. Instead, the nearmen were ignoring her, and the spirits seemed to have vanished entirely.
Turiel tipped her staff forward and blasted Ether with an incredibly potent burst of energy. The shapeshifter scattered into her wind form, dodging the blast. Until now she’d avoided the form of wind because this disciple of the D’Karon was clearly no stranger to their penchant for absorbing power, and her windy form was a veritable banquet of energy without much at all in the way of defense. Even in the brief moment she’d spent in the form, she could feel Turiel eagerly pulling at her reserves. Ether did not give her a chance to capitalize, instead whisking above her foe and drawing swiftly to stone again.
Her heavy form dropped down atop Turiel, too near to dodge and too massive to deflect. The blow forced her to the ground. Ether reached out with her stony hands, closing them about Turiel’s throat. The necromancer’s eyes were wide, her expression glazed with insane exhilaration. Black bands, stouter by far than anything she’d conjured to this point, burst from the ground and coiled around Ether, splitting until they’d encircled her very fingers.
For the moment, the strength of each was a match for the other as she lay pinned. Her voice a whisper slipping through her half-strangled throat, Turiel spoke again.
“I would have dearly loved to finish the lot of you before reopening the path for the D’Karon. I suppose it should be no surprise to find those warriors who could overcome the wise and powerful D’Karon would be more than a match for myself, even diminished by one as you are.”
Ether felt a surge of anger at these final words. Seeing it flicker through the glassy stone eyes brought an even broader grin to the face of the foe.
“There… that is something, isn’t it? I dealt little with Epidime, but he had always insisted the greatest weakness was always the mind…” Her eyes darted indistinctly for a moment, remembering. “Ah. Ah! Ivy is certain you had love for the fallen one, Lain…”
“I will not hear you speak his name!” Ether hissed, squeezing tighter. “You defiled his resting place! His name is too good for your traitorous lips!”
The shapeshifter could feel the strands of magic burning at her, trying like leaches to drink away her power. If she was anything but stone it would be unbearable, but even so, they were like living iron, peeling her grip open and inch by inch lifting her away from the pinned necromancer.
“And there we see the wisdom of his words,” Turiel said. “Look how it scatters your mind so, robs focus from the task at hand. You really have no idea how to cope with such things… Your beloved Lain… he’s passed on, hasn’t he? Dead, and without a trace? Pity… I’m sure his body would have been a fine thing to breathe life into. In death he would no doubt have made a fine ally for me. Perhaps his soul is still lingering in that place? Would it please you if I plucked him from his rest to tell you what you already know? That he didn’t love you in return? That he could never love you?”
Ether fought viciously against her bonds, but they were just strong enough to keep her in place. Her mind burned with hate and pain at Turiel’s words, stealing away precious focus from her efforts. Smaller threads snaked around Turiel herself, sliding her from beneath Ether and dragging her upright, like the strings of a puppeteer. The bands holding Ether did the same, leaving the pair eye to eye. Turiel’s lips were tight together, her brow knitted with conflict.
“Apologies are in order. That was uncalled for. Effective though it was, I’m afraid such attacks are not to my taste. I’d never sought Epidime specifically as a mentor for that precise reason. There’s no reason to be cruel. I only want you dead. I don’t want to torture you.” The conflict left her face, replaced with certainty. “But I will finish you if you give me the chance. Another time, elemental, and this battle would be yours. But not here, and not now. In this place of death and fear, I am the one who will be standing when the battle ends. Your power will wane. Mine will continue to flow. Remain as stone and I shall grind you to powder. Turn to flesh and I shall rip you to shreds. Turn to anything else and I will drink away your power. Leave this place and I will go about my task. I think the choice is clear.”
Ether’s fury was bold upon her face, her eyes locked upon Turiel’s. As wise as it might be to retreat, to regroup, and to face this foe again with her allies to help her, Ether knew that she could never allow such a thing. As she ran through the ways she might regain the upper hand, and tried to push away the sting of emotion that was even now sapping her focus further, she realized that while many forms were in motion around them, nearmen rising under the control of vengeful spirits, one of them was unlike the others. It was a pale figure, moving slowly but with purpose…
Turiel noticed the look in Ether’s eye and turned to the approaching form, stepping aside to give the shapeshifter a clearer view.
“Oh good gracious, Aneriana. I believe I was clear when I said I was through with you. Back to your slumber with you,” Turiel said.
Though the final words seemed a simple statement, Ether felt a pulse of power behind them. Turiel was trying to dispel the unnatural life that animated the much abused being. Nevertheless, still she stalked. She had only one hand remaining, the other having been taken to replace Turiel’s own. But in her one hand was a gleaming sword.
Turiel placed her hand on her side and tipped her head. “Well then… you aren’t acting alone, are you? Is that… so it is. Really now, Lucia. I’m genuinely regretting giving you a moment with your daughter. Evidence that no good deed goes unpunished. And did Rassa give you pe
rmission to use his sword?”
“You want to hurt my world. You want to hurt my city,” said Aneriana, her voice entwined with that of Lucia Celeste, who had for the moment taken refuge within her form just as so many other spirits had slipped into the nearmen. “You want to hurt my daughter.”
“All of those things are merely the unavoidable consequence of my true aim. There’s nothing personal in any of it. Now please. Be gone!”
This final command was accompanied by a swipe of her staff, but Lucia responded in kind, whipping her arm with unnatural speed and sending the sword hurtling in Turiel’s direction. Turiel’s attack did its work, striking Aneriana’s body and Lucia’s spirit as one. The body tumbled to the ground, and the spirit was banished from within, but not before the blade met its mark as well. It sank a third of its length into the shoulder of her staff arm.
The sorceress stumbled backward, crying out in agony. When she clutched the blade to pull it free, her cries only increased as flickers and flares of golden light curled out from the weapon wherever it touched her. She lurched in pain before finally wrenching it free. The wound gaped for a moment, light shining through but no blood flowing. Then the same threads that accompanied all of her spells bridged the opening and began to pull its ends shut, but the injury seemed reluctant to close.
“Quite the…” she gasped, stumbling back against a pile of rubble, “remarkable sword…” She coughed, flecks of black spattering her lips and chin. “It shouldn’t even have reached me.”
Ether redoubled her efforts as she felt the bands holding her weaken in response to the attack.
Turiel turned to her, gritting her teeth and trying to maintain her hold, but it was clear that Ether would soon break free.
“I suppose you think this is the tipping point? That you’ve won now?” Turiel said. “The first lesson I learned from the D’Karon, the very reason I was sent to open the second keyhole, was that one should never have only one plan in place. As we speak, my dear Mott is ending that dragon of yours.”
The D'Karon Apprentice Page 44