The woman was old and had deep wrinkles lining her dark hazel eyes. Yet they betrayed determination rather than fear.
“Seems like someone managed to set St Dame’s on fire. I told them it was bound to happen, I did. Now they have to put it out. Be a right pain, too.”
“Oh my. You don’t think it’s dangerous, do you?”
“Relax hon, the firemen can deal with it. You just stay put and don’t go out the city.”
This intrigued Leira.
“Why must I not go out of the city?”
“ ’Cos it’s dangerous, that’s why. Especially with this storm coming on. Gate’s locked too – standard procedure in case of emergency, you understand.”
Leira found that interesting.
“Well thank you for the information. I am most grateful. Now, I must be off.” She inclined her head.
“Well good luck to you. There are bad times ahead, I tell ya.”
You have no idea.
Leira gave the woman one last wave, walking towards the gate, away from everyone else. She stuck near the alehouses and brothels to avoid being conspicuous.
At least this city has sewers, she thought. She had read how some towns didn’t possess them. Her mouth subconsciously pulled itself into a grimace.
Soon, the gate became visible, along with the storm clouds pulling ever closer. Thunder rang out; the humidity increased. If she listened carefully, she could almost hear the sounds of her undead trampling through the landscape.
DUM. DUM. DUM.
But as the woman had said, the gate was now, indeed, locked. Four guards stood over it; all were male, heavily built and carried a motley collection of swords and spears. Leira knew that there was a small garrison situated in the city, but these men clearly weren’t it. She could tell by their swagger – no self-respecting professional soldier would behave like that.
One of the men – a man with dark blue eyes who seemed to be the leader of the group – called out:
“Hey there, pretty girl. You out for a stroll in the rain yeah? Noticed the church fire by any chance?”
The other men laughed, much to Leira’s confusion. What was so funny? Then she realised that the man had referred to her as “pretty girl”.
Ah, so they mean trouble?
“Well hello. I was just coming to this part of the city to get out, but I see the gate is closed…”
“Yeah, yeah, what’s your business?” one of the other men asked.
“My business?”
“What you came here for?”
“Oh, I came here to help out my father in the smithy,” she lied. Her father had died a long time ago.
“A pretty little thing like you work in a smithy? Ha! Those dainty little fingers of yours haven’t got a scratch on ’em. What’s you really worked for? A whorehouse?” the leader spoke out. Leira decided to call him blue-eyes. The other men – who were now sneering at the man’s joke – she would refer to as “dumb [number]” respectively.
“No, I don’t work like that. Now, will you open the gate? I’m a busy girl.”
“Busy eh? Think you can help us guys a little?” he asked, an edge to his voice. “Come on, why don’t you come up here?”
“No, I’m staying here till you open the gate.”
“Oh, so it’s like that is it?” The others continued to laugh.
“Come on down, captain. This one wants us to come to her.”
They momentarily disappeared, and re-emerged through a narrow door at the bottom.
Although they hadn’t yet seen it, Leira had pulled in wraiths around her. They were really very subtle – just the darkening of the shadows around, a feeling of coldness in the air.
Wraiths were spirit undead; they could only be seen as a dark, formless shape. They were the most difficult of the undead to summon, because they required power to hold them in place. Leira and her master kept them in Limbo and only called them up when necessary.
Still, they were worth it. Their incorporeal form meant they could not be harmed by physical weapons, and they were fast and deadly. Only water could slow them.
One of the men came up to her. Leira stared at his dark eyes and resisted grimacing at his acrid breath.
He placed his hand near her thigh, and asked:
“Want to help ol’ Joey first?”
Leira betrayed no emotion. She didn’t back away from him, nor change her confident stance.
This seemed to make the men a little uncomfortable.
“C’mon, you gonna tell me you never done this before?”
Leira actually smiled, but it was cold, predatory, and very unlike what the men were used to seeing.
“Sure I did,” she said. She calmly placed her hand on his throat, and leaned in.
The other guys whistled.
“I killed plenty before,” she whispered into the man’s ears, and began choking him.
Dark magic made her strong; the man couldn’t express any of his mounting horror as Leira squeezed his windpipe shut.
The men behind him cheered on, still unaware of what was going on, the man’s large body concealing Leira’s movements.
With a final gasp, the man was dead, and Leira sent him flying into a nearby well.
The men blinked; their mouths went slack as they observed their dead companion.
“What the hell, bitch!” one of the other men called out, the first to regain his senses. Hello to you too, Dumb 2.
He raised his spear, and charged.
But Leira needn’t worry, for her wraiths descended upon him. In an instant, he was encased in a solid mass of black. He screamed, shrill like a pig, and desperately clawed himself in a futile attempt to displace his attackers.
But the wraiths then dissipated, leaving nothing but bones in their wake.
The other men ran. Leira laughed.
“Did the wolf meet the lion, you brainless twerps?”
The men didn’t answer, too involved in trying to escape.
Leira spotted a cart left on the street; and with a wave of her hand and a muttered word, she sent it into the third man, crushing him.
Only blue-eyes was left.
Leira decided to attempt something she had wanted to do for ages.
She made a wall of air around her, emulating the process by which Neshvetal flew. She knew she couldn’t yet fly, but she could do some pretty acrobatics.
In a sudden blur of motion, she flew into the air, performing a jump that would have left the best athletes of Arachadia stumped.
She backfliped, and landed straight in front of blue-eyes.
The eyes in question were mirrors of terror, but Leira saw in him a deeper understanding. Death had come at his door.
He didn’t bother drawing his sword, knowing full well such weapons were of little use against Leira’s magic. Instead, he said:
“I don’t know what you are, but please to God, make my death quick.”
Leira cocked her head, now the aggressor. She walked calmly in front of him, and to his credit, he didn’t shake or back away.
“Tell me… why should I give you a fast death? You’re not a church goer, judging by the fact that you were trying to rape girls when the church was burning. Neither are you compassionate, else you wouldn’t have tried that in the first place. So what makes you think you deserve any better?”
All anger had drained from his body. He fell down on one knee; his eyes were filled with pleading.
“Maybe I don’t deserve it, but I can see you are a better person than me.”
“Wrong.”
With a blur of movement, Leira’s hand shot out; a full electric blast hit the man square in the chest.
His body thrashed and he screamed, and Leira kept shocking.
Then she stopped.
Been enjoying your fun, Leira? I do hope you can open the gate. The dead are restless, Neshvetal spoke in her head.
Leira turned around inadvertently, and replied:
Of course, Master. The invasion is und
er way.
With a flick of her fingers, she used the mechanism to raise the gate all the way to the top. People were still screaming; a line of smoke hung from the air. Clearly, the fire had spread.
It was nothing to what would follow.
Finally, the storm that had been brewing went over the city heaved its breath, and with a mighty bellow of thunder and lightning, unleashed its contents. Rain lashed the city, winds savaged it, and hail mixed into the fray to create even more chaos.
The clouds covered up the sky, until it was almost night.
But a bolt of lightning illuminated a scene far more terrifying.
A huge, slavering mass of Revenants crowded outside the city walls. Dragethir flew above, eliminating any sentries. Skeletons lead the army, ready to crush any soldier that stood in their way with a wall of arrows and a blur of axes.
A figure zoomed in from the distance: Neshvetal.
He was flying, the wind blowing his hair away to reveal those dark, azure eyes that shone with intelligence and power. Leira sighed. How she wished that creature would have more… romantic tendencies.
He flew in, landing neatly beside Leira.
With him, came the fog.
A non-mage would simply have felt claustrophobic with it around. Leira’s power allowed her to actually see it: its translucent appearance, white around the edges, as it creeped in, crowding everything in fuzzy white noise.
Only Leira and Neshvetal could still communicate.
“I’m proud of you, Leira. That was quite a trick with the flying.”
“Thanks, Nesh. Will you let me watch in on the fun?”
Neshvetal smiled.
“Of course.”
They both walked on the battlements, the city below them now overrun with undead. This time, the screams were everywhere: people tried to run, the Revenants caught up, and people died.
Leira watched as a woman – with a child in her arms – ran, while the Dead – who could move far faster than the Arachadians wanted to believe – followed. She was blocked by another horde; she ran through a side street between two buildings. She said something to the child, and threw her on to a window, outside the reach of the monsters.
She was not so lucky. One Revenant bit hungrily into her shoulder; the rest followed. She was quickly devoured.
With her dead, the Revenants moved on, their hunger endless.
Leira frowned slightly. She wasn’t sure if they should really have died.
“Don’t worry, the world that will follow will be far better,” Neshvetal assured her.
Leira muttered something incoherently.
As the city was destroyed beneath her, one man shuddered, saw what was around him, and then pretended to be dead.
What could she say? Blue-eyes intrigued her. She had never seen a person change so completely in so little time.
THIRTY FOUR
Linaera looked at the food on the wooden plate.
The plate was chiselled; it displayed elegant elven designs, of flowers, trees and smiling lute-players.
Linaera wasn’t smiling. She liked the plate; she didn’t like what was on it.
First of all, were the nuts. Hazelnuts, to be more specific. Their colour was dark brown, like that of old trees – it didn’t go well with the leaves, whose spoiled green colour reminded Linaera of rotten spinach, and whose smell made old socks seem perfumed.
She prodded the hazelnuts first, which seemed mildly more palatable.
When they entered her mouth, her eyes widened. But not because of horror at its repugnant taste: quite the opposite, in fact. The nuts’ texture was crunchy, but not hard; its taste was warm, mellow, like that of fine brandies.
She then speared a leaf, biting into it delicately, precisely.
Again she was surprised.
For although their texture was less desirable than that of the nuts – they were a little bit soggy, and seemed to break up into too-small pieces – they were sweet. It was like eating burnt, green, sugar.
“Mmm.”
“Do you like it?” Edal asked. (He had become a sort of guide, Linaera thought. She was glad.)
“Weirdly, yeah. The hazelnuts should break my teeth; and the leaves should be awful. But they’re sweet.”
“It’s called Stivial. It grows naturally in our forests, and is usually used as a sweetener, for the younger elves you understand.”
Linaera nodded. She had come to understand the division between young and old within these creatures.
“Do you eat them? As a sweetener, I mean?”
Edal smiled.
“Yes. The older elves may have become sour and bitter inside, but I still prefer the sweetness of childhood.”
Linaera continued eating. She looked at the plate once more; the food had magically disappeared.
“You elves are good cooks. Is your food enchanted?”
Edal’s chuckle reminded her of older schoolchildren humouring younger fish.
“Hardly now. That would be cheating.”
***
Linaera was walking towards the training ground, where Liená had suggested they meet.
She reviewed her clothing – her favourite boots still padded her feet, comfortable and warm as they ever were. She had decided to scrap all finery: instead she wore practical woollen trousers (her legs had reminded her of their need often enough), practical cotton underclothing, and a practical woollen jumper.
She wanted to repay the Elves for their kindness. She had studied them; she still didn’t know how she could do so. She wanted to give them the jewel – but part of her wondered if it would be needed, and besides, they didn’t seem to care for pretty baubles. She wanted to give them food, but she didn’t have any; she wanted to work for them, but she didn’t have time; and so she contented herself to polite words and carefully calibrated flattery. (She had quickly learned the elves did not praise each other regularly: when they did so, it was usually viewed with suspicion.)
The sun had risen. Its rays were warm and colourful; its bite stung like frost.
It illuminated Aláthelia. The elves were busy working, as they did so every day, with clock-like precision. The birds chirped peacefully. She spotted a few – robbins were there, clad in vibrant hues. There were also blackbirds, magpies (the devious little thieves of old) and a species Linaera couldn’t recognise.
It was large, approximately the size of an owl. Yet its eyes were asymmetrical: one was dark blue, the other light green. They were also rather large for a day bird.
It blinked curiously at Linaera, before it flew off.
Thank you, Neshvetal. You have promised to remove all that is good in my life.
She arrived at the training ground. Neshvetal would pay; Liená would be the arbiter.
***
A few elves stood around her. They soon parted, when they spotted Linaera. She guessed they held her in contempt; or perhaps in fear; or perhaps neither.
Strange creatures.
Liená had promised she could improve Linaera’s battle skills – although Linaera thought it more likely she just wanted to kick her arse.
“Hello, Linaera.” She seemed amused, but not in the slightest bit surprised. Evidently, she understood Linaera.
“Hello Liená. You said something about our new training. Any reason why I have to get my arse kicked? Or is it just that you’ve gotten bored?”
But this did not offend Liená.
“Oh no Linaera, I meant what I said. Target practice is one thing; fighting quite another. In the real world, you have to act quickly and unpredictably – there’s no second chance. It’s why we fight in groups, even if some of us are ahead of the others.”
Linaera sighed. Time to prepare for a round of arse-kicking.
She spotted Deriën in the woods: he looked curious, as if he didn’t already know the outcome of the battle.
Come to gloat at my failure? Bring it on.
She surprised Liená by attacking first.
“Attir!”
She splayed out her hands; she cast her wards, in preparation for the inevitable counter-attacks.
Fire bolts came at Liená. They were bright red, crimson at the heart, painful to look at. They could burn walls.
Liená countered with ease. Then she attacked.
Linaera adjusted for the attack: lightning bolts. Sheer power would block just about anything – but it was much more efficient to adapt one’s wards. Skilled mages could defeat much stronger (but more foolish) opponents this way. Fire was blocked with cold; lightning with voltage; and shock with vacuums.
The lightning went around Linaera’s wards, burning a tree in the process.
Linaera shuddered. Liená was a strong mage, no doubt about it. She could toast all but the most skilled human mages.
And yet, it wasn’t so difficult as Linaera thought. Maybe Liená was going easy on her; or maybe she had become stronger than she realised.
Linaera attacked again: “Gruntha naddar!”
First there was fire; then lightning; then shock, strong enough to break bones. Linaera may never have liked battle magic, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t learnt it.
Liená had no trouble. Each attack was stopped dead.
“Good, but predictable. That is a common enough trick in our trade. You need to do better.”
She said: “Fho ina.”
A beam of power slammed into Linaera.
It was incredibly bright, utterly white, and totally deadly.
She adjusted her wards; she concentrated her power. She was able to stop it – barely. Her arms stung from the electricity. The smell of ionised air was thick in the atmosphere.
She looked around: Deriën was watching her, actively curious at the outcome. Mayhap he believed she could win.
Maybe he doesn’t know as much magic as he thinks he does, Linaera thought. And then: Liená, you really can be a bitch.
“Liená, that could have killed me!”
“Sometimes you have to know the danger you are in to really appreciate your own power,” Liená responded, looking completely unruffled.
Linaera wanted to argue, but in truth, she wasn’t actually that frightened. If Liená wanted her dead, she would have been so long ago.
Instead, Linaera decided to get creative.
She had seen how well Liená could predict her actions; she knew she couldn’t overpower her through force. (Liená appeared to be on a stroll, while Linaera could barely stand.)
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