by Phil Tucker
More demons were emerging from the cracks that had shivered Starkadr open. Endless clouds of the smaller demons, burly wolf-headed monsters, a dozen boar demons, and more. Tiron bit his lower lip and tried to get a sense of how brutal the odds were becoming. For every demon they’d killed, it looked like a hundred had flown out to replace them.
“You all right?” He glanced down Draumronin’s sides. “It hurt you much?”
NEGLIGIBLE, said the dragon.
“I’ve lost my spear and sword,” said Tiron. “I’m not going to be of much use.”
WE SHALL SEE, said Draumronin.
“What are we going to do? How do we handle this?”
The demons were rising ever upward, eschewing teleportation in order to simply swamp the skies in every direction. Tiron caught a glimpse of Flamska shearing its way through a mass of them, its flame nearly blindingly bright, and then it disappeared.
WE NO LONGER ATTACK, rumbled Draumronin. NOW WE SEEK ONLY TO SURVIVE. HOLD TIGHT. HERE THEY COME.
CHAPTER 7
Iskra
Dread suffused the ruined chamber, and a cold hand clutched Iskra’s heart, clamping down on its hectic beating and reducing it to a terrified trembling. The aureate glow of the Ascendant’s power seemed suddenly insubstantial, gilded and not gold, and the darkness all around them seemed to hunger, to press in on them, deeper and more velvet than before. Sweat pricked her brow, the hairs along the backs of her arms stood, and her stomach clenched, filled with a sour sensation that she’d only ever felt one night months ago when she was tortured near to death.
“By the Serpent Mother,” whispered Ilina, looking behind them. The old woman’s face drained of what little vitality the Ascendant had gifted her, and a fellow Vothak reached out to take her arm, to steady her as she stumbled and nearly fell.
Iskra wanted nothing more than the plunge forward into the dark, to sprint heedlessly into the gloom and put as much distance between herself and whatever was manifesting at their backs as she could – but she forced herself to stand straight. As she stared at the wheeling demons, at the shattered cyclopean blocks that arose prodigiously all around them, she thought instead of her fallen son. She saw Roddick as he lay with his throat slit, his sweet face waxen, life flooding away with the blood that drenched his front.
For the first time, she dove into that anguish and used it as a source of desperate resolve. She dressed herself in that pain, breathed it in, and allowed everything that had driven her to that moment, that had caused his death and had forced her on ever since, to give her strength.
Strength to turn.
Strength to gaze upon the worst the Black Gate had to offer. The fell executor of Zephyr’s perverted will.
The ur-destraas.
It was forced to bend down to fit through the monstrous crack in the rear of the huge chamber. Then it towered, exuding a vermillion glow from the center of its exposed ribcage, a fire that pulsed and was breathed forth so that it wreathed the great ribs that clustered around its fiery core.
Iskra’s throat clamped shut, and her nails scored wounds in her palms. It was so much more than its malefic appearance. Its presence was a thing unto itself, a hand smothering her, clamping down over her mouth and nose, pushing down on her shoulders as if to force her to kneel, demanding obeisance and acknowledgment that she was before something that could only be worshipped. Demanding that she weep even as she gave herself unto it to be consumed.
It had to be nearly twenty yards tall, yet it was slender and muscled like a dancer. Its head was an inverted triangle affixed with twin burning holes and spiraling horns that arose from its temples. Flutes of black bone emerged from its shoulders and back, burning as they plunged into the center of the conflagration that coruscated in its chest cavity.
No wings. Its enormous hands were tipped with modest talons. It had no maw with which to rend. No weapon in hand. No obvious means of inflicting destruction. Yet, as it cleared the crack’s overhang and finally straightened, extending itself to its full height, Iskra intuited that it didn’t need such base means of slaughter. She didn’t know how it would kill, but she had no doubt it could, and with sublime efficacy if it so desired.
“Run,” croaked Tóki, and Iskra felt a surge of pride and tenderness for him as he stepped between her and the distant demon. “Run. Now.”
“There is no running from this being,” said the Ascendant. His voice shook as he moved to the fore. “It can cross distances in the blink of an eye. We must face it.”
“You speak madness,” rasped Ilina. “How can we fight such a demon?”
The Ascendant looked back at her and smiled. “We must have faith.”
“It comes!” said one of the Vothaks.
It strode toward them. Lithe and almost languorous in its power, it crossed the great broken floor with ease. It didn’t hurry. The inferno within its hollow chest raged like a bonfire with unlimited fuel.
The Ascendant took a deep breath and made the sign of the triangle with his hands. “Life obeys no dictum,” he said. “Life defies. It spites. It glorifies and rewards. It is our privilege to live, and beyond that we can expect no more. Of all the dross matter in the world, we are gifted with life, and for that, we must be eternally grateful – even as we are crushed, as we are broken, as we are maimed and hurt and felled by old age.”
“Yet we Ascend,” murmured one of the guards.
“It is folly to strive, to seek dominion over ourselves and the world, yet life compels us to do so even as it mocks our efforts. It is madness to expect justice in a world this cruel, yet always, we seek balance. At best, we may hope for love, yet too often we pass it by, distracted as we are by the vagaries of life.”
“Yet we Ascend.” The first guard was joined now by the others.
“Hope for a better tomorrow. Aspirations beyond our station. Grief for our misfortunes. Anger at our weaknesses. Hatred for the shortsightedness and pettiness of others. Greed for more. Hunger for touch. Yearning for love. Never content. Always failing.”
“Yet we Ascend,” said Iskra, taking strength from the oldest mantra.
The ur-destraas was coming ever closer. If it could truly cross space as it willed, then this slow approach was a purposeful torment, a drawing out of their fear. She wouldn’t give it that. It was petty defiance, but she would face this creature with her chin raised.
“In failure, may we find dignity. In loss, may we find wisdom. In pain, may we find growth. May our souls rise. Ever rise. May our weakness —”
The ur-destraas appeared only a dozen yards before them, its body hunched over, its hands closed into fists, and with a shuddering roar the conflagration in its chest expanded. It billowed out of the front of its chest, a turbulent conglomeration of molten golds, visceral crimsons, searing yellows and oranges. The demon’s upper body was hidden within this raging ball of flame, which in a flash grew to envelop them, smearing out over the curvature of the Ascendant’s sphere, surrounding them as it sent a wave of searing air past them.
Iskra cried out, threw an arm before her face, and fell to one knee. Other cries sounded around them. They were in the heart of the sun. Everywhere she glanced was fiery doom, whorls of immolating heat that shrank their sphere ever tighter, ever closer.
One of the Hundred Serpents had but a fraction of a second to shriek as the sphere shrank past him, and then he was burned away. Everyone pressed in together, tripping over each other, falling and scrabbling to get close to the Ascendant.
The flames receded. The ur-destraas gazed upon them with its inscrutable visage, its flames once more caged within its chest.
“It toys with us,” gasped the Ascendant, fighting to his feet. Hands shaking, he placed them in the form of the triangle again.
Embers were floating in the air about them, drifting motes of incarnadine light akin to a fiery snowfall. It was eerily beautiful, and for that Iskra felt only greater horror.
“May our weakness succor us,” said the Ascendant, his voi
ce growing stronger. “May it remind us of the vanity of our aspirations, for only in humility, only in our devotion to that which is greater than us, only in our love for the Ascendant may we be succored, lifted from the cycle unending of punishment in this life.”
Iskra spoke the words with wild defiance, taking comfort from them even as she wanted to weep. “For only then shall we Ascend.”
Starkadr shuddered.
A new attack? Was it going to bring the mountain down upon them?
No. The ur-destraas was gazing upward, and for the first time Iskra thought she saw something akin to tension in its frame.
“What was that?” asked Audsley.
Before anyone could answer, the ur-destraas lifted off the ground. Still gazing up, it flew toward the roof, extending one hand toward the cavernous ceiling. To Iskra’s amazement, a tunnel opened in the rock above it — no, melted — in such a way that huge, glowing dollops of molten stone fell about it, and then it was gone, flying up and out of sight.
“Where did it go?” she asked, as breathless as if she had raced for miles.
“Something drew it away,” said the Ascendant, lowering his hands. “It and all the other demons. Look. We are alone.”
And, indeed, they were. For the first time, the air about their golden sphere was still. The floating motes of fire faded away and disappeared.
“A miracle,” whispered Ilina.
“For us,” said the Ascendant. “Perhaps. Pity whatever drew the ur-destraas to themselves. But come! We must make good our escape.”
The sphere of light swelled in size, and they lifted off the ground once more. The Ascendant crossed his legs and rose to float in the sphere’s center with his eyes closed, and together they all began to drift over the broken floor till at last they found a chasm wide enough for them to enter.
CHAPTER 8
Tiron
Draumronin fell sideways through the air, lashing its head around to leave a trail of flame behind them, incinerating the demons in pursuit.
The wind screamed through Tiron’s hair, and he felt delirious. Life had become swoops and dives, barrel rolls and sickening drops. Nothing in his entire life had prepared him for this, but instead of it being overwhelming, he found it exhilarating. The experience reached down to tap the mad core that had helped him survive one battlefield after another while friends had fallen and brought it to screaming life.
Down they hurtled, and faster than Tiron could keep track of, they slipped through three different locations: Starkadr flickering to their right, then directly below them, then far in the distance as the great black dragon finally unfurled its wings and arrested its fall, its shadow skimming over the rooftops as it pulled up with powerful beats that sent dust storms scything through the streets below.
The demons hadn’t followed. Gasping, hanging on to Draumronin’s spine, Tiron wiped the sweat from his brow and cast around, searching for the next attack. The assaults had been relentless these past few minutes, a frenzy of talons, hellfire and shrieks, but now, out here on the rim of the city, they found a moment’s peace.
“You think they gave up?” Tiron said in little more than a rasp. Continuous screaming in freefall had taken its toll.
NO, said Draumronin. THEY STEP ASIDE FOR THEIR MASTER.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Tiron. “You can sense it coming?”
Rauda appeared fifty yards off to their left, its white flanks scored with shallow gashes, the membranes of its wing torn. Shaya looked unhurt. Skandengraur and Flamska also appeared, and a moment later they were flying abreast, wing tips nearly touching.
THE ENEMY TAKES TO THE SKIES, said Skandengraur with the noble gravitas that made it the perfect ride for Ramswold.
“I thought it had already taken to the skies,” said Tiron.
NO. WHAT COMES HAS NEVER BEEN DEFEATED IN COMBAT. Draumronin’s rumble was pensive. ONLY THRICE HAS SUCH AS IT BEEN TRICKED INTO SLAVERY.
“Tricked?” asked Shaya, her voice thin in the rushing wind. “By the Sin Casters?”
YES, said Draumronin. AND THEY ARE LONG GONE.
Maur spoke harshly, and her dragon, Flamska, let forth a bugling cry that sounded defiant to Tiron.
YES, said Skandengraur. WELL SAID.
“What can you tell us about this enemy?” asked Ramswold. “And Tiron. Catch.” The young lord unbuckled a second blade that he had at his hip and tossed it underhand at Tiron. His aim was off, but Draumronin dipped down so Tiron could snatch the scabbard out of the sky.
WE SHALL SEEK TO SURVIVE, said Skandengraur. AND HOPE THAT YOUR FRIENDS EMERGE SOON.
THERE, said Rauda, its head craning forward. HE EMERGES. ONCE MORE TO BATTLE?
ONCE MORE, said Draumronin. AS ONE.
Only years of experience allowed Tiron to buckle the blade about his waist, his fingers clumsy with tension. A moment later, Draumronin slipped through the sky, and they emerged before Starkadr, which thrust itself up to block Tiron’s view, obscuring half of the sky. The demons had pulled back, ceding the skies, and moments later the other dragons appeared at Tiron’s sides.
Midway up Starkadr’s flank, the stone trembled, fissured, then glowed white-hot and evaporated, leaving a broad hole from which an inhuman figure emerged, floating without wings, its chest cavity a burning nest of ribs and fire. Horns skewered the air, and its eyes wept tears of flame as it rose, arms spread as if to greet them, embrace them, showing no fear at confronting four dragons by itself.
Tiron drew his blade. Never had a gesture felt more futile.
The thing was horrific. Its very appearance caused Tiron’s throat to clamp shut, his stomach to flutter, his palms to sweat. Tiron responded in the only way he knew. He rose up, blade raised to catch the midday sun, and roared his defiance.
“For the Order of the Star!”
The dragons responded with shattering roars of their own, and as one they broke formation, falling away and veering around to come hard and fast at the rising demon.
Tiron leaned forward, shoulder to horn, squinting into the wind, sword held back behind him. The demon rapidly grew in size as they closed in on one side, and Tiron could make out the throbbing pulses of its heartfire. No swords, no whips, no claws or fangs. Then how...?
Rauda appeared directly above the demon, curved like a bow, maw open. Shaya’s hair whipped in the wind. Skandengraur and Flamska flickered into view as they sliced in toward the demon from different angles.
And in that moment, the demon exploded.
It hunched its back, and the flames in its core burst free of their prison of ribs. In a flash, the demon was obscured by a ball of flame that expanded outward at a tremendous rate, scorching the air and stealing the breath from Tiron’s lungs.
A bolt of its raging flames rose up from the expanding sphere and slammed into Rauda’s own descending fiery breath. For a moment, each stopped the other, but then the demon’s fire overwhelmed the dragon’s attack and shot up, encircling the dragon’s white body, charring its wings, causing it to spasm and let loose a clarion call of such agony that Tiron’s skin crawled.
Shaya fell from the dragon’s back, cindered, her eyes guttered in her skull, and a moment later Rauda herself dropped, trailing black smoke, to careen toward the earth.
Draumronin slipped through the air and appeared under the demon, blasting it with an exhalation of its own dread flame, spearing through the sphere of fire only to reveal that the demon was gone. The roiling and expanding flames collapsed upon themselves, betraying a hollow center.
IT COMES! Draumronin coursed through the air, and then again, and then again. Tiron cried out and held on, unable to get his bearings. Faster and faster Draumronin flew, thrusting itself mightily through the air, and when Tiron looked behind them, he saw why.
A river of fire was following in their wake, hungering for them, gaining on them.
No matter how many times Draumronin slipped away, on it came.
Tiron looked around and saw that the other two were
in the same predicament. Skandengraur and Flamska were flickering through the sky, appearing and disappearing as quickly as they could, and wherever they appeared, a river of flame followed.
Yet the fiery trails did not disappear like the dragons did; rather, segments remained hanging in the air, beginning where the dragons had appeared and ending where they’d disappeared. The blue sky was rapidly filling with a skein of molten fire, and the faster Draumronin flew and slipped, the more it laced the skies with the burning contrails.
Tiron bit his lip and stared down at his blade. What could he do? He wasn’t armed for this. Even the dragons weren’t prepared. Draumronin had to desperately drop, diving under a river of flame that filled the sky, only to pull up before another. It was too hard an ascent; the dragon was forced to slip once more, appearing farther out over the city.
Tiron went to yell, to ask why they didn’t teleport far away, but the answer was obvious: how would they know when to rescue Iskra if they were flying miles out over the countryside? They had to remain close, within sight of Starkadr’s base.
But the sky was only growing more tangled with incandescent sections of the demon’s fire. Terror and frustration waged war in Tiron’s heart, and, leaning out, he saw the demon itself, hovering closer to Starkadr’s side, emanating an endless flow of liquid flames that disappeared a few dozen yards from it to follow the dragons wherever they flew.
“We can’t keep this up!” shouted Tiron as they banked around a vertical column of flame, then veered down and to the left to avoid Skandengraur as it slid into existence and nearly crashed into them. Doing so caused Draumronin to brush against a river of flame; immediately, the air was filled with the stench of burning flesh and a strange mineral tang.
Draumronin roared and teleported straight up. A second later, they were a thousand yards above Starkadr, wispy clouds around them, the sun blazing brilliantly overhead. Starkadr was the size of a shield below, spread out like a rumpled blanket, too far away for details to be made out. The river had dammed at Starkadr’s base and flooded into the south half, where it gleamed metallically in the avenues and streets.