by Chris Fox
He landed in a heap, rolling desperately back to his feet as he triggered his first healing potion. He breathed easier as the warm glow flowed into the wound. They were already coming for him, and he couldn’t afford more than a moment. Thankfully, adrenaline had already begun to mask the lingering pain.
“Cowardly,” boomed the hatchling. “You brought healing potions on a March of Honor. You are lower than offal. Finish him, Outriders.”
Aran drew upon void and fed it into the armor to increase his mass. He dove at the mage who’d hit him with the lightning spell, and used the corpse of her companion as a shield. He slammed into her with incredible force, flinging her violently off the side of the pyramid. She sailed off into nothing, eyes unfocused as she fell.
Had she been conscious she probably could have saved herself. Instead, Aran turned away before the inevitable happened.
The closest surviving war mage was a weathered man with greying hair. He held a larger sword than the others.
“You will pay for killing Esmelda,” he said, quiet as death. “Rayd, take him on the right. Saaf, be ready with a counterspell.”
Aran’s blade vibrated eagerly and the blade flared white as it awakened its internal fire. He sprinted forward and lunged at the grey-haired man. The man’s blade came at him, fast as anything Dirk could have managed.
Enchanted steel met enchanted steel, and power flooded through Aran’s weapon. He could feel the touch of Neith, feel the strength the god had infused the weapon with.
The grey-haired man’s blade shattered, and Aran’s slash continued down. It sliced through the man’s shoulder, carving a path all the way to the heart. He yanked the blade free, and began to pivot to face the next target. Too late.
Something punched through Aran’s side, a hot poker of agony, just under the armpit. The blow would have been fatal, but his armor shunted the tip away, and it slid into the air on the opposite side of his armor. Kazon had saved his ass once again.
Aran’s elbow came up and crushed the man’s nose into his skull. He dropped into a crouch, and barely avoided the last war mage’s slash. Aran dropped his sword and tackled the war mage. They grappled for a moment, but Aran got his hands around the man’s head. He twisted sharply, and the man’s neck snapped with an awful crunch.
He rose and walked over to retrieve his spellblade. Aran turned to face the pair of Krox on the next level. Thus far he’d managed to avoid using much magic, but that time had passed. He wasn’t sure he could take both, not if they were war mages like the one he’d fought back on Shaya.
Time to find out. Aran started walking up the stairs.
29
Second Level
Aran surveyed the enforcers carefully. It helped to think of them as hatchlings, as it put them into perspective. These were baby dragons, with much of the power they’d possess as adults. They could learn magic, of any kind. They could learn to fight. They were stronger, tougher, and almost certainly older than Aran, Voria, or any of the other people he fought alongside.
But he’d also killed a whole lot of hatchlings in his brief career. Some had gone down nearly instantly, though most of the time that had happened he’d gotten the drop on them. These two were waiting for him, and from the way they stood on opposite sides of the stairs they were used to working as a team.
Time to find out what they could do.
Aran started slowly up the stairs, allowing the healing potion to complete the last of his work. He was fully healed for this, though the paper doll on his HUD showed red on the armor’s right leg. That lightning bolt had done serious damage, damage that couldn’t be fixed quickly. A red tracery of angry lines extended through the paper doll, which Aran assumed meant some of the internal systems were damaged.
Neither hatchling spoke as he crested the last three steps. That was a bad sign. Rookies taunted. Veterans treated combat with the focus it deserved.
Aran drew a large amount of void from his chest and fed it to the armor. He crossed the distance to the first enforcer in the space between heartbeats, and his sword flashed down as he sailed over. The blade glowed white, and Aran fed it air and void, coating the weapon with void lightning.
The tip sank into the enforcer’s back, but the armor deflected most of force. He didn’t need much, though. Just enough to ground the spell. The purple lightning flowed down the blade like a living thing, surging into the wound in waves.
“No!” the hatchling roared, hopping backward suddenly. He yanked a hammer about the size of Kezia’s from a void pocket, and leapt at Aran. From the corner of his eye Aran could see the other hatchling smoothly adjusting to flank him.
Aran ducked under the hatchling’s blow, but barely. The hammer hummed past his face, his dark armor reflected in the weapon’s pocked surface.
The second hatchling thrust a hand at Aran and flung a spirit bolt at his face. Aran’s momentum from the fall was carrying him right into the path. His heart thundered as he reached for void in an attempt to pull himself out of the way.
Too late.
The spirit bolt slammed into his chest, the white energy going misty as it met the dark metal. Whatever resistance the armor offered, it wasn’t enough. The bolt passed through, and icy numbness wrapped clawed fingers around his heart. His entire body went limp, and he crashed to the ground, sliding across the stone.
Aran struggled to rise, but his limbs refused to respond. It wasn’t the same as being paralyzed. That cut off all access to your own body. He had control of his body, but had never felt so weak. Lifting his arm might as well have been lifting the planet.
The hatchling with the hammer brought it down over Aran’s head. It slammed into his helmet, and white, frigid pain exploded through his skull. He blinked rapidly, and his vision refocused enough to see the spiderweb of cracks running across the HUD.
“You will never even reach me,” the hatchling called from the level above. “You’ve met your betters, little Outrider. Now we will show you why our species ruled this sector for a hundred millennia.”
The hatchling raised his hammer again, while his companion crouched a few meters away, ready to fire another spirit bolt. Aran took a trembling breath and willed the first counterspell potion to activate. Blinding sapphire light burst from his armor, exploding outward in all directions.
It washed away the numbness, and Aran’s limbs began to function again. He rolled backward and flipped into the air, soaring several meters out of reach. The hatchling with the hammer kicked off the ground, and his wings extended. He soared after Aran and moved with the kind of precision reserved to those who’d been born with a set of wings.
Astria’s voice whispered into his ear from a few millimeters away, though he was positive it was a spell, not her actual mouth. “Drakkon Style is offense. Attack, brother. Make them fear you.”
She was right. The more defensively he fought, the more he gave them a chance to attack. He needed to take down the Krox with the spirit bolts first, then he could deal with the one using the hammer.
Aran reversed his momentum, zipping past the startled hatchling. The creature tried to bring the hammer around, but Aran was too quick. He flashed past, toward the hatchling on the ground. That enforcer thrust out a hand and flung another ball of pallid white.
This time Aran was ready. He activated the second counterspell potion, and smiled grimly when blue energy burst from his armor. The spirit bolt splintered into harmless mana shards, and left nothing between him and his opponent.
A distant part of Aran regretted the need to show so much power, but he knew he needed to end this quickly. Aran summoned equal parts void and fire. His blade, already a beacon of brilliant white light, flared with purplish flames. He brought it down over the Krox’s heart, slamming it into the breastplate.
The enchanted metal screamed, then reluctantly parted for Aran’s spellblade. His weapon punched through the armor, through the creature’s thick scaly hide. It discharged the void flame into the wound, and the hatchling scr
eeched.
Its wings flapped, and it pulled free from the blade, staggering away in a half-flying half-fall that ended with it lying on the edge of the first step to the next level. The light faded from its eyes as a streamer of smoke rose from the gaping hole in its chest.
Aran didn’t hear the hammer until a split second before it caught him in the back. The blow didn’t hurt nearly as much as he expected, though it did launch him into the pyramid wall. Aran rolled with the blow, and came up a few meters away from the enforcer. Thankfully he’d retained his spellblade.
“Now, it is a fair fight,” the hatchling growled as it took as step closer.
Aran glanced at his HUD to see what kind of damage the blow had done. The armor along the back had gone yellow, but the real damage was clear now: his potion loaders had been shattered. All of them.
There’d be no more healing. No more counterspells. No more of whatever the red potions had been.
He looked up at the hatchling. The Krox had greater reach, but he was a hell of a lot slower. Aran didn’t wait for him to approach. Waiting wasn’t the way of Drakkon. He was a predator. A dragon. He killed.
Aran flung his sword at the Krox. The blade flared as it left his grasp, the intelligence within fueling the glow with fire magic. Aran added void, not to coat the blade in void lightning, or void flame, but instead to make it heavier. He added air to increase the velocity further.
The blade slid easily through the Krox’s armor, directly through the throat. The weapon sank all the way in, until the crossguard finally halted the blade’s momentum with a meaty thunk.
Aran wasn’t done. He wrapped several tendrils of air around the tip of enemy’s blade. As he’d hoped, the hatchling’s grip relaxed as his body reacted to the hideous damage Aran’s sword had inflicted.
He used air to fling the hatchling’s hammer toward its own face, and the creature’s head exploded in a shower of gore. The Krox’s headless body twitched once, then slumped to the ground. Aran walked over calmly and retrieved his sword.
He turned to look at the level above, where the final hatchling waited. Aran had no more potions. His armor was severely damaged, showing just how disappointingly fragile it was compared to his old Mark XI.
But all his opponents were dead, except for one. He knew what he needed to do. Aran met the hatchling’s gaze, and noticed that this time…his opponent said nothing.
Aran began climbing the stairs.
30
Boss Fight
A shadow passed over Aran as he mounted the final step. He glanced upward to see dozens of dragons wheeling like birds, all watching the show he was providing them. Well, he hoped they enjoyed it.
He held his spellblade loosely, and the tip drew a line of sparks from the stone as he approached the hatchling. The hatchling merely watched him, with wide, curious eyes in that reptilian face. Now that he was closer Aran could detect no animosity. Had all the bravado been for show?
The creature’s own blade was also tip down, the blade plunged a few millimeters into the stone. “Tell me, Outrider, before I kill you, why did you come back to this world? You had to know you would find nothing but your end here. It seems a curious thing, to return to a world you know will kill you.”
Aran raised his sword and flowed into Drakkon stance. “I came because my past was taken from me. Because I know nothing of this world, or of your kind. I came for answers.” It was true, even if it wasn’t the whole truth.
“Can I share a secret?” the hatchling said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I regret the need to kill you. You are a curiosity, Outrider. And, so far as I can tell, you’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing save defend yourself. It’s a pity you slew Khalahk, but you had no better option.”
Aran cocked his head. He wondered idly if this creature was trying to distract him, but he couldn’t see any reason why. It held all the advantages, and delaying a few moments to talk seemed motivated by nothing more than genuine curiosity.
“So why are you trying to kill me then?” Aran asked. He raised his blade slowly.
“Pragmatism,” the hatchling admitted. “My sire bade me slay you. You cannot be allowed to leave this place, or others will take up your ways. Mortals will be attacking dragons all over this world, and we’d be plunged into anarchy.”
“Aren’t you afraid killing me will turn me into a martyr?” Aran asked. He considered advancing, but hesitated. The hatchling wasn’t the only curious one.
The hatchling blinked, and his spellblade fell a few millimeters. “I hadn’t considered that, though I imagine my sire must have. Yes, I can see why, now that I think about it.” He gave a toothy smile. “Dead heroes do not inspire other heroes, because no hero wishes to die. If you killed a Wyrm, but were properly judged there is little chance any will wish to share your fate.”
“Good point,” Aran admitted. If he lived, he might inspire others. But if he died, whatever the cause, no one would want to share his fate. “I guess we should do this, then.”
“Indeed. Die well, Outrider. Know that you have my sympathy.” The hatchling delivered a respectful nod, and raised his weapon again.
Aran returned the nod.
He blurred forward, kicking off the stone and bringing his spellblade down in a brutal slash. The air hummed, then a tremendous metallic ringing, like a gong being struck, echoed out into the sky over the pyramid.
The hatchling parried the blow, then answered with a short punch that caught Aran in the gut. He staggered back a step, momentarily unable to breathe. The creature’s blade flicked at his face like a serpent, and Aran rolled away. The blade flashed down, striking another line of sparks from the stone as Aran came to his feet.
“You move well, but you revealed too much while reaching me.” The hatchling moved slowly in his direction, each step forcing Aran a little closer to the edge. He was all too conscious of the long drop. His magic wouldn’t save him. Holding himself aloft with air would only make him an easier target.
“Time to think outside the box, I guess,” he muttered.
Aran thrust a hand at the marble, reaching for water. He flung a thin coat of ice in a long line toward the hatchling, who hopped nimbly away. He eyed it contemptuously, which meant his gaze left Aran for a split second.
Aran dashed onto the ice, using a bit of air to increase his momentum. He slid across the ice, and by the time he reached the hatchling he must have been traveling at thirty or forty kilometers per hour. His shoulder caught the hatchling in the chest, and even though Aran was lighter the blow flung the creature into the pyramid wall.
It recovered almost instantly, but Aran was already summoning void. This time he opened a void pocket directly underneath the hatchling. He’d never tried to do that before, but the yawning mouth snapped open, and the hatchling’s feet slipped inside, up to the knees.
Aran’s right hand came out, and a globe of water materialized around the hatchling’s head, further distracting it. The creature clawed at the water, which wasn’t more than a minor irritation. And a conductive material. The tip of Aran’s sword brushed the water, and a tide of electricity crackled into it.
The water amplified the electricity, and while the blow didn’t do much damage, it did temporarily blind his opponent. Combined with its legs trapped in the void pocket he’d have thought it enough to stop his opponent.
Before he could capitalize the creature’s tail snaked around his leg. He was yanked down to the marble, his faceplate slamming into the stone with a tremendous crash. Cracks spiderwebbed across the faceplate, and the HUD winked out entirely.
Aran’s blade vibrated in his hand. For the first time Aran could feel a real emotion coming from the weapon. Hate. It longed for the hatchling’s death. The weapon was consumed by it. The ferocity of the emotion was more than a little troubling; anything that all-consuming was dangerous.
But right now, Aran needed dangerous. He instinctively reached for the blade’s rage and let it flood through him, their minds joining.
> He seized the hilt with both hands, and brought the spellblade around in a wide slash. The inferno around the blade flared up, light and heat bursting from the weapon as it sliced through the hatchling’s tail, freeing him from its grip.
Aran pressed the attack and rammed his blade toward the hatchling’s chest. The blade had almost reached it when the creature vanished. Aran stumbled forward into the space it had occupied, quickly catching his balance and spinning to look for his opponent.
“Your mind will not allow you to see him,” Astria’s voice whispered into his ear. “I’m sorry, brother.”
He spun slowly in place, and sought any sign of the hatchling. Any scrap of sound, or even the scent of charred flesh. Something to betray his opponent’s presence. But, if he understood the magic conveyed by the suit, he knew none of that was possible. The spell would prevent his brain from registering any of that.
So how did he deal with this thing? The sudden rage made it difficult to think.
Aran sensed more than saw something out of the corner of his eye. He dove forward, but the hatchling’s spellblade found him anyway. It sliced into his kidney, drawing a deep thirty-centimeter cut along his lower back. A cut he didn’t have a way to heal. Why hadn’t the armor deflected the blow like it had the others? It must be too badly damaged. That should have been clear when the hammer hit, but the rage made it difficult to focus.
He flipped his sword in his grip and rammed the blade backward, toward the hatchling. The tip touched armor, but then the hatchling vanished again. Aran growled wordlessly as he slashed through the space where his opponent had been. Maybe he could get lucky.
“Your technology is impressive,” the hatchling called from a few meters away, near the stairs that led all the way to the top of the pyramid, several hundred meters above. “But it is also why you are losing. You draw your strength from this technology, instead of yourself and your own magic. Now that your armor is non-functional, you are helpless.”