“Adjust course to the starboard side. Farther,” G-77 added as Taren increased their turn. “Now straighten out and ascend at forty-five degrees for one point four two miles.”
He pushed the helm forward, and the mistral skiff picked up speed. His companions all clutched the railing, their expressions ranging from thrilled to terrified.
A cloud bank approached rapidly and broke over them, engulfing them in thick mist, but they pushed through it in seconds. Smaller islands fell away as they continued to rise sharply, yet despite the steep angle, none of his passengers were thrown backward, likely a benefit of the stable magical field levitating the skiff. Taren idly studied it with his second sight while they climbed higher and saw the craft was similar to the disc of force he conjured, its lift generated from an enchantment built into the base of the skiff itself. The fan blades merely provided propulsion.
They left a few more scattered isles behind and kept ascending, more wispy clouds rushing past. The air grew cooler and, combined with the windchill, verged on uncomfortably cold by the time their destination came into view. A large island floated alone up there in the sea of sky, which maintained its persistent rosy sunset hue. The sun’s rays passed through a glittering firmament overhead as if through an ocean of suspended crystals that gave the sky such vibrant colors.
“The dock is ten degrees west,” G-77 said.
Taren angled the craft to what he assumed was west and leveled off, which gave them a good view of the island.
The Refuge was nearly circular, about a mile across with a snowcapped mountain at its center. The plant life was different here, as befitted the higher elevation, forests of pine trees a rich green carpet covering the isle. Another stone pier sheathed in metal plating protruded into the sky below.
Taren angled the skiff downward while cutting power. He steered the skiff toward the dock but was still coming in too fast and too steep. He tried hauling back on the helm as far as he was able, but the craft’s momentum kept it gliding at a shallow dive. Around him came the sharp intakes of breath as his friends clutched onto the rails more tightly.
“Brace yourselves,” he warned unnecessarily. “I think we’re going to crash.”
Rather than allowing them to slam head-on into the dock, Taren swiveled the wings back to raise the nose at the last moment. The keel struck the dock, sending a violent shudder through the skiff with the crunch of distressed metal. The craft’s magic repulsed the dock an instant later, and they bounced into the air. Taren fought the helm to level the skiff and ensured the thrust from the fan was killed. The skiff ungracefully flopped onto its belly at the far end of the dock, but this time its velocity didn’t overwhelm the magic’s ability to cushion the blow. They slid smoothly across the grassy earth before the craft came to a stop.
Taren pulled the ring free, and power dissipated from the mistral skiff, although its perpetual levitation magic remained, keeping it hovering a foot above the grass.
“Whew, that was brilliant! Good piloting.” Ferret’s enthusiastic clap on the back made Taren stagger. “Oops, too strong—sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He couldn’t help the grin on his own face. For a moment, he had thought they would break apart and be tossed from the skiff like potatoes from a sack spilled off a wagon.
The sound of retching drew his attention. Kulnor was hunched over the rail, his complexion somewhat green as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“No matter how the dwarf feels, I say that went quite well. Nice job.” Aninyel shot him a quick grin before she hopped out of the skiff then paused to inspect their surroundings.
The others followed Aninyel’s lead and disembarked. Taren extended his second sight to try to locate the overseer. The flora around gave a healthy green glow, while the ground was studded with brighter blue spots, noticeable above the island’s overall aura.
“There’s something in the ground,” he said with a frown.
“Caution, Master. Defensive measures are active,” G-77 warned. “Deactivation requires use of an artificer’s key.”
Ferret had strayed a few paces off the path and stopped suddenly, an inch shy of a pair of blades the height of a man that shot out of clefts in the ground with a loud clack. The blades scissored through the air before disappearing back into the ground—all occurring within a heartbeat.
“That’s a bitch of a first step,” she muttered.
“Stay behind me,” Taren warned.
He held up the Ring of the Artificers before him. It was vibrating on his finger, and its surface glowed molten orange. Nervously, he took a tentative step forward on the dirt path, then another. A metallic click sounded nearby, and he flinched, but nothing happened. He continued forward, the others following slowly behind him in a line. Ominous clicks and clacks of deactivating traps preceded him. The ground had been disturbed in several places alongside the path, long furrows gouging the soil, and he thought Nesnys’s minion might have blasted the traps with magic to try to destroy them. After a few minutes, the worrisome noises ceased, and he was able to relax slightly and pick up the pace, although he kept the ring extended to ward off any more traps.
The path narrowed, wending its way up a rocky ridge and climbing toward the mountain at the center of the isle. As before, they encountered no signs of animal life, the island eerily silent save for the wind whispering through the pine needles. The trees thinned out after a time, and the exposed path led directly to the mountainside ahead, where a narrow canyon carved through a sheer cliff face.
Extending his second sight, Taren saw a bright mix of different auras beyond the canyon: several blue-white magical auras he had come to associate with artificer creations—constructs and the like. Among the blue-white auras was a deep red, one he assumed was the attacking fiend. Bursts of power reverberated back and forth, the signs of a pitched battle.
“We need to hurry. There’s fighting ahead.”
Trusting the ring, Taren ran toward the canyon. Mira jogged tirelessly at his side, and he heard the heavy footsteps of Ferret and Kulnor from behind as they picked up the pace. The passage through the cliff was only wide enough to allow two people to pass side by side. Taren slowed then stepped inside with Mira beside him. Ferret and Aninyel came next, then Creel and Kulnor.
The ring glowed orange again, and more metallic sounds of disabling traps sounded inside the sheer, rocky walls. One trap that looked inoperable had already been sprung and remained rusted in place. To either side of the sheer walls were giant circular steel discs with saw teeth around the edges. They appeared to have sprung out of the rock, easily able to cut someone in pieces. Getting past the protruding discs, still wickedly sharp despite being nonfunctional, took a bit of contortion.
Once they passed the traps, the path curved around a couple of times then opened into a bowl-shaped valley in the heart of the mountain. A large shaft was open to the sky above, filling the Refuge with rosy light. Just inside the valley lay the wreckage of more destroyed automatons to either side of the path, some of the pieces still glowing as if subjected to intense heat.
About ten paces of open ground lay between the canyon opening and an arched stone bridge passing over a wide chasm of empty sky below. The shaft inside the mountain evidently passed entirely through the island.
On the far side of the valley stood a single building tucked against the cliffside. It looked very much like a homey country cottage.
Standing atop the apex of the bridge was an ominous black-robed figure raining green fireballs down onto the open field between the bridge and the cottage. A strange-looking automaton, possibly another model they hadn’t yet encountered, was fighting back with beams of red light streaking from a gem embedded in its chest. The red light was breaking against a shield the cloaked attacker had erected.
Taren’s gaze locked on the fiend. Maybe with the advantage of surprise, we can take this bastard out without too much trouble.
As if reading his mind, Creel quietly drew Final Strike and moved forw
ard to the base of the span, as did Aninyel, the pair set to charge.
Before any of them could attack, G-77 suddenly blared a warning, “Intruder detected!”
The cloaked attacker turned, and a gout of green fire shot from its raised hand—or what would have been a hand, for the demon appeared to be a set of empty, moldering robes. Green spots of fire that looked like eyes blazed within the cowl.
Taren instinctively tried to throw up a shield, but the magic was a mere trickle when he drew on it. The fireball blasted through his flimsy shield as if it were a mere soap bubble. Creel and Aninyel dodged out of the way, but Taren was left standing there stupidly in shock as the fire was about to consume him.
Someone struck him from the side, and he hit the ground. The fireball crackled past overhead, close enough that Taren felt its blistering heat, and struck the cliffside, dislodging a small avalanche of stone. Mira rolled off Taren and was instantly back on her feet, crouching over him protectively.
Kulnor bellowed something in Dwarvish, his hammer held aloft, and it glowed with a silver radiance.
Aninyel charged the fiend. Another blast of fire streaked to meet her, but she vaulted over the fireball, twisting into a sideways spin, and came down with her curved saber slashing. The fiend reeled back, a piece of its moldering black robes fluttering free of where its wrist would have been. The elf landed in a roll then was back on her feet behind the demon.
Creel raced up the bridge as well, while Kulnor advanced more slowly, his shining hammer raised before him.
“I’m all right, Mira,” Taren said, clambering back to his feet. “We have to help the others.”
Mira glanced at him a moment, worry plain in her eyes, before nodding. She moved to follow the others. Ferret remained near Taren for the moment, as they didn’t have much space to maneuver on the bridge.
Creel and Aninyel attacked the demon at the same time from opposite sides, their blades flashing out. A burst of green fire erupted around the fiend’s feet and kept them at bay, cocooning the demon within.
Taren drew on the earth magic again, but as before, it was weak, so he heaved on it more strongly. Little more than a trickle came forth, so instead he reached out to the nearest source of magic—the fiend’s defensive spell.
The fiery cocoon snuffed out as its essence surged into Taren. He immediately realized his mistake, for the creature was drawing on negative energy. His mother had warned him that such energy had poisoned his father when he had done the same, but it was too late by then.
Creel and Aninyel took advantage of the opening, both scoring blows on the fiend, sending severed scraps of cloth fluttering away, along with what looked like roaches and worms flying loose to scurry away across the bridge.
Taren lashed out with the captured power, ensnaring the fiend in bands of fire. Smoke roiled off it as it struggled against the bonds. Kulnor stepped up and slammed it in the chest with his glowing hammer. The fiend let out an unearthly shriek that bludgeoned the ears, then it seemed to collapse in on itself. More smoke boiled off it from the touch of the blessed hammer.
But the demon wasn’t through yet. It suddenly disappeared from its bonds, teleporting away. Taren cut off the surge of magic to the bonds, suddenly feeling dizzy and ill from the negative energy. He lost his grip on the power and fell to his knees, retching on the ground.
When he looked up again, the fiend had reappeared about ten paces in the air above its last position. It brought its handless sleeves together and cast a huge bolt of green fire down at the bridge.
Taren’s companions scattered. He didn’t know whether they were the targets or the bridge itself, but the entire structure quaked regardless, fractures running along the stone, then it crumbled into the Abyss below, taking Taren’s friends with it.
Chapter 41
Their victory came on the heels of a poorly made jest on Sianna’s part. She didn’t know why she’d said such a thing while pained and half delusional. Certainly, the battle was no laughing matter. Perhaps all simply went according to Sol’s will. She couldn’t know for sure, but she said her thanks to her god afterward all the same, even though the instrument of his will in that instance came in the unlikely form of a hated and feared changeling.
Subsequent to Nesnys and Elyas abandoning the field and the decimation of Sianna’s own command group, it was Irralith of all people who was both clever and talented enough to exploit the confusion and manipulate the Nebaran army into surrendering.
Sianna was still trying to deal with the chaos in their ranks and devise a strategy after the elimination of many of their commanders when the changeling suddenly appeared amongst the group of warriors and healers tending Sianna and the others. She hadn’t seen Irralith since the battle commenced, but she had been true to her word, aiding them by initially creating illusions to conceal the reserve troops, to seemingly swell their numbers, and fabricating illusory charges to keep the Nebarans off kilter.
“Your Majesty.” Irralith looked much more a queen than Sianna herself felt, standing tall and beautiful, wearing a suit of armor that gleamed in the scattered rays of sunlight piercing the clouds, all of it illusory, but it still had the intended effect. “How may I be of service?” There seemed to be no mockery in Irralith’s words as she knelt beside Sianna, voice pitched quietly for her ears only. “I fear a devastating blow has been struck with the loss of your commanders. How can we right the ship?”
Father Wilhelm and many other powerful clerics had been slain. Sianna had directed those remaining to see to Lanthas and the more grievously injured among them. A young elven healer was tending to her currently, attempting to heal her cracked ribs and various cuts and bruises. The loss of Queen Shalaera had obviously disheartened the elves. Her daughter, Julicienne, was cradling a broken arm nearby while consulting with a pair of her advisors.
“A courier from Queen Sioned reported Nesnys and Elyas departed the field moments ago,” Sianna said. “If we can just take advantage somehow.”
“Indeed. An opportunity presents itself.” Irralith looked thoughtful.
If she’s playing us, she’s doing a fair job of it. She was too sore and exhausted to really concern herself with possible treachery from the changeling right then.
“Well, unless you can call the wrath of the gods down upon them, I don’t know what will turn the tide,” Sianna said, jesting.
Irralith’s face brightened, and a mischievous gleam filled her tawny eyes. “What an excellent idea. Consider it done.” She rose to her feet, striding swiftly back toward the battle.
What is she about to do?
The healer finished tending to Sianna. His work had eased her pain, and she had to fight her eyelids, suddenly grown heavy. She lay atop a blanket, but the chill of the ground still ebbed through, making her cold and stiff.
I can’t succumb to sleep while men are still fighting and dying here.
Sianna struggled to her feet, smiling what she hoped was encouragement at Rafe, who was still being tended to by a cleric. She was tired and achy all over, but the worst of her injuries were healed. She made her way to a cordon of guards standing at the edge of the copse with a view over the battlefield.
A commotion drew her attention, and that was the moment when the heavens opened up. The gray clouds sporadically spitting snow abruptly rolled back, and a thunderclap sounded. A brilliant ray of light streamed down, and within it stood a mighty champion—a celestial by appearance. The towering woman had golden hair, feathery wings, and a sword formed of pure, radiant light. She also happened to have Irralith’s features.
Had she not known better, Sianna would have been convinced of the illusion’s authenticity, for it was magnificent. She gasped at the sight and staggered past the guards, who were watching slack-jawed. The combatants all around had frozen at the awe-inspiring sight before them.
“Tremble before me, men of Nebara,” Irralith roared in a thunderous voice. “Almighty Sol frowns upon this war and demands an end to it at once. Ketania and it
s allies stand in the light. You do not.” She leveled her sword, and a blast of light streamed out, burning some illusory Nebaran soldiers to ash. “Throw down your weapons, and you shall be shown mercy.”
Soldiers on both sides exchanged confused glances. When they were slow to comply, Irralith disintegrated some more men, to the same effect.
“We surrender! Mercy!” The cries went up, and Nebarans began casting down their swords and falling to their knees.
“Hold, you fools! It’s only trickery!” An officer with a bruised face pushed his way through some surrendering soldiers, clouting one on the head with the pommel of his sword. Sianna recognized him as the one Elyas had struck for trying to countermand his orders. “On your feet! The warlord will have your hides, you cowards! Attack at once, I com—”
A bow thrummed from behind Sianna, and an orange-fletched arrow sprouted from the officer’s right eye. He pitched over without a sound.
“Been out of the fight too bloody long. Look what I’ve been missing.” Kavia limped up to stand beside Sianna, bow in hand and her other arm draped across Jahn’s shoulders.
“Welcome back,” Sianna said. “And you too, Sir Rafe.”
Rafe had followed the other two, taking a position on Sianna’s other side. He looked much better than he had earlier, the stab wound in his back closed up and merely caked with dried blood.
“What is happening?” Rafe asked in wonder, staring at Irralith with round eyes.
The changeling was striding through the Nebaran ranks, waving her sword around and demanding they surrender. Once the surrender began, it became a ripple effect through the Nebaran host. Those who weren’t surrendering were falling back, likely to flee—not wishing to end up in a Ketanian prison or facing the headsman’s axe.
“We have some divine aid on our side,” Sianna answered Rafe with a laugh. “Irralith.” The absurdity of the situation boiled out of her, and she laughed so hard she couldn’t stop. After a moment of side-splitting abandon, her laughter turned to rough sobs. If only we could have used this illusion effectively at the beginning to spare all those thousands of lives.
Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3) Page 35