The Hope of the World had become destruction incarnate. She needed no weapons, she was one herself, as well forged and keenly honed as any blade plucked from a swordsmith’s foundry.
The Deceiver was the first to break the tableau, surprising the onlookers who knew her by striking directly instead of through a surrogate. And attacking physically, when all expected her to use magic. With a speed and suddenness that took them all by surprise, the Deceiver crossed to Elora in two giant steps and swung at her with both clenched fists, a blow that likely would have made a significant dent in the main walls of the Gate to Peace.
They never touched their target. Elora laughed aloud, a liquid trill underscored by the sound of grinding bones, and seemed to melt away from the Deceiver’s attack. Many of those watching, who lacked the skill in sorcery to perceive the truth of what was happening, assumed she’d altered her shape. Thorn, among a very few, knew better, that Elora had simply moved away from her foe and then back again with such quickness and grace that the mind was fooled. She ducked in behind the Deceiver, adding her own strength to the momentum of the other’s charge and heaving the woman away from her. She’d executed a textbook parry and was rewarded by the solid crash of the Deceiver’s body into the nearest wall. The Deceiver opened a hole right through, sending a spiderweb of cracks and fissures off to either side and upward well past the first gallery.
With a banshee yowl that made the strongest of hearts seize up with terror, Elora leaped for her, only to find herself slapped down with the same casual brutality she’d employed herself. Her ebon form did its share of damage to the floor, but the woman herself wasn’t harmed in the slightest. She regained her feet in an instant but that was as far as she got before the Deceiver hit her again, with a roundhouse sideswipe of energy that hammered her the length of the atrium. When Elora arose once more, without the slightest hesitation or any sign whatsoever to show that she’d suffered from blows that would have smashed any lesser being to a pulp, she was struck yet again.
For all the Deceiver’s efforts, and they were considerable, Thorn saw at once that she was doing no damage to her foe. They were too evenly matched, the contest had become a stalemate, and would remain so until one or the other tired.
The scales of that balance could be tipped either way, by someone with the power to act, and the will. The Chengwei were of no use; those still capable of resistance were busily engaged with their turncoat Caliban. That left him.
But to aid the Deceiver, or this avatar of the world’s most ancient enemies, that was his torment.
Either way, he knew the choice would doom him, as he knew it had to be made.
That was when one of the Chengwei took matters into his own hands—by starting the clock.
The mechanism had been primed for a brief demonstration, mostly a show-and-tell light show that would leave impressive memories in the audience without generating substantial tangible effects. Those had been determined beyond all doubt by the miniature prototype that had been used against Fort Tregare.
The only warning any of them had was a rippling fanfare of chimes and tympana, courtesy of a rotating drum added solely for that purpose. The sphere began to spin, casting off bursts of sparkling radiance that flashed through the air like meteors, leaving trails of multicolored fire before quickly fading to nothingness. That would change, Thorn recollected from discussions he’d had with the Vicar-General, as the flywheels built up speed. The pulses would soon become strong enough to reach the surrounding walls of the Palace itself, where they would catalyze the energies already stored within its near-bottomless reservoirs and rebound to the Resonator a quantum level more powerfully than before. From that point on each succeeding pulse would double its force—two to four to eight to sixteen to thirty-two and so on. The initial increases were deceptively small, which in turn allowed the operators the greatest measure of control, so they could fine-tune and adjust the focus and scope of the beams in relative safety. The principle that went into the power curve was derived from the old story about the philosopher and the King: in return for service provided the throne, the philosopher was granted any boon. He asked for rice, the staple food of the kingdom, one grain to be doubled over each of the sixty-four squares of a chessboard. The King, who wasn’t good at mathematics, that was why he employed philosophers, laughingly agreed—until the numbers to be doubled rose into the millions, the tens and hundreds and thousands of millions. Well before the final square, the philosopher held title to all the rice in the land.
He’d meant this as an object lesson for his sovereign, to inspire the Monarch to think a little more carefully before making decisions.
In a sense, he got his wish. The King gave his next decree more than ample consideration—and then he signed the warrant for the philosopher’s execution. Sometimes, royalty has no sense of humor whatsoever.
Neither does fate.
Thorn was among the first to recognize the danger. The operation of the Resonator had been based on a seamless interaction between the globe and the surrounding structure of the Palace. In effect, the Palace acted as both power source and governor for the device, providing limitless reserves and at the same time a receptacle for dumping excess energy should the operators decide to scale back the Resonator’s operation. It was a brilliantly engineered system, a breathtaking fusion of magic and technology, but it was also constructed on a foundation as delicately balanced as the underpinnings of the city itself. It presupposed that the Resonator’s function would be constantly and properly monitored and that likewise the structure of the Palace would remain fundamentally sound.
Nelwyns at heart were engineers. They were one with the earth, they built things. By nature, therefore, they were conservative. They embraced the concept of margin of safety, crafting the already generous tolerances of their structures with a little bit extra to spare. To allow for the unexpected.
The Chengwei sorcerers considered themselves artists. Their goal was precision and efficiency, wrapped in an aesthetic that would be pleasing to behold. At no point in design or construction did they skimp on materials or on the care of workmanship; the finished product was one the finest Nelwyn or elven artisan would be proud to call their own. It just never occurred to them that something would go wrong.
The Palace had been struck a series of increasingly severe blows. The patterns of its internal matrices had been badly warped, if not outright broken, along with more than a few walls. Anyone possessing a smidgen of a wizard’s InSight—their ability to perceive realities beyond the purely tangible—could feel the jangling toll the battle was taking, generating a background dissonance more disruptive than claws screeching down a blackboard. For Thorn, it was akin to being spiked repeatedly through the skull. Even Anakerie, whose sensitivity was far less than his, reeled from the onslaught.
He tried to cry a warning, but couldn’t make himself heard over the din.
He tried to reach the dais, only to be blocked by the lumbering return of the Caliban to the fray.
“What can we do?” she demanded of him, as he hurriedly explained the situation, then flipped him to his back, sprawling herself on top of him—using her far larger form to best advantage—as a shower of broken crystal cascaded down from one of the galleries overhead.
Thorn saw that Elora was paying them no heed whatsoever, as if they were beneath her notice, prey that was hers for the taking whenever she pleased. Her focus was wholly on the Deceiver and she stalked her foe with a sideways crab scuttle that always managed to keep the other between herself and the Caliban. Watching, both Thorn and Anakerie realized that Elora and the Caliban were working in tandem. It was like a staged hunt, where the game is gradually driven into a fenced enclosure where they can be slaughtered at the hunter’s convenience. He was the fence, patiently waiting for the Deceiver to come within reach.
Elora’s gleaming sable skin proved as impervious as armor to the assaults of both the De
ceiver and surviving Chengwei wizards, for whom survival had taken over as the order of the day. She paid them less notice than she did Thorn and for all the effect their spells had on her that was about what they deserved.
The strangest and most disturbing aspect of her transformation was her smile. It was cruel and utterly without mercy yet it was also wholly genuine. There was a fearsome joy to her in this duel, as though at long last, after years of perceiving herself as being somehow less than her foe, she could now confront the Deceiver as an equal. To Elora, this was fun.
The Deceiver appeared ready to make her choke on that delight.
That was when the first charge from the Resonator made actual contact with the Palace.
Thorn had experienced the effect in small when the Chengwei made their final assault on Fort Tregare, but that was scant preparation for what pounded him now.
It was as if a bell the size of the whole world had been struck, with him standing at its heart. He assumed there was a sound but if so it was beyond the power of his ears to register, much less his mind to comprehend. It pummeled him like a wild surf, a wave of blunt, brute force, overrunning with contemptuous ease his best attempts to stand against it. He staggered, he fell, he cast about in desperation until his flailing hands caught hold of Anakerie’s shift and then he gathered her close, his tremendous Nelwyn strength making a mockery of the difference in their sizes. He pressed her head to his chest, while her own longer arm looped around his head and squeezed him just as close. Against such a monumental tempest, they could offer each other only sparse protection, so they settled for a measure of comfort instead, pulling their bodies together into a tight little huddle.
For a moment the room vanished about them and Thorn thought they had all been destroyed. In another fraction of a moment, death would claim them.
Then, as thought continued, and shapes made their presence known amidst the landscape of his dazzled vision, he realized that what he’d seen was some gigantic lightning flash, a radiance so powerful and pure it had been purged of all color. He reacted immediately, allowing his unconscious mind to dictate his response as it wrapped himself and Anakerie in a swaddling blanket of interlaced energies, the strongest wards he could manage given the situation.
These were spells he’d long ago learned to always carry with him primed for release, so that a single word or gesture would be sufficient to activate them. It was a strain to maintain such powerful enchantments on such a hair-trigger basis but there wasn’t always time to start from scratch.
This was one such occasion.
The defensive cocoon was hardly in place when thunder followed the lightning. The two elements were of a pair and this explosion of noise dwarfed the bell clap that preceded it. If that resembled the shock of storm-driven waves on a beach, this was finding yourself on the anvil of Creation beneath the hammer of God.
Thorn’s wards flexed, making him grunt, then bellow in agony and defiance, at the effort demanded to sustain them. Tears burst from his eyes, and every sinew of his body stretched taut; he gave up trying to draw breath and concentrated instead on forcing his heart to beat, the pressure on him so extreme that the muscle couldn’t pump. He squeezed his own and then Anakerie’s, then his own, then hers, establishing and maintaining a steady rhythm even though it felt like they were being crushed beneath the weight of the entire Stairs to Heaven.
He couldn’t spare an iota of concentration or awareness to see what was happening elsewhere in the room as the energies unleashed by the Resonator grew increasingly demented. For that, he was grateful.
A monstrous tearing impinged on his faculties, followed by thuds of varying weights crashing all about him. His head was at the wrong angle; he couldn’t see. There wasn’t time to be gentle, he’d have to apologize later and take whatever thumps and lumps Anakerie chose to deliver, as he forced her eyelids open and used his wizard’s InSight to claim her vision briefly for his own.
One entire wall of the atrium was buckling, becoming more liquid than solid as a series of waves rolled up its surface. That was the cause of the impacts. The swells were separating the galleries from their mountings. The balconies in turn, deprived not only of physical support but of magical as well, were collapsing under their own weight.
He tried to move, to no avail. Worse, the attempt diverted precious concentration from the maintenance of his heartbeat, and Anakerie’s. Didn’t much matter. They’d neither of them drawn a breath since this chaos claimed the room and without fresh air to recharge the blood with oxygen the strongest and most dependable of heartbeats wouldn’t matter a damn.
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to reveal all the longing in his heart, for the world that was, for the one he’d fought so hard to bring about.
He stopped his heart, and then he stopped hers.
In his head, a sandglass turned, its grains racing through the funnel measuring the moments left to them both. He ignored it and turned every ounce of concentration he possessed toward his right hand in his pocket.
Try as he might, he couldn’t shift his arm. He’d have to make do with the extension of his fingers. Here the curious paradox of Nelwyn physiology worked wholly in his favor. For all his lack of stature—at least in Daikini eyes—his fingers hearkened to the High Elves who were the Nelwyn’s most distant and far-removed cousins. They were long and nimble, and blessed as well with the strength that was a Nelwyn hallmark. He snagged one acorn, then a second, the barest contact with each. He allowed himself a smile; that should do the trick.
He dropped both.
Had he the energy to spare, he would have launched into a tirade of curses foul enough to make a sailor blush. There wasn’t time. Already his chest was beginning to ache, the fringes of his vision to blur. Lacking Nelwyn stamina, it would be worse for Anakerie and since he needed her eyes to see with he couldn’t afford another slip.
Thorn wanted to rush, which required a dollop of extra effort to force himself to relax. No deadline, no pressure, that was essential.
The tips of his fingers stroked the polished curve of the acorns and all his pains nearly went to waste with the slashing fear that he might have pushed them out of reach. He stretched his fingers until the joints threatened to pop, spreading them wide as well, then gently closed them around where he estimated the acorns lay.
The solid contact made him want to weep. He shelved the impulse for later.
He closed his fingers, rolling the acorns into his palm. The situation around him had deteriorated markedly while he’d been busy. His wards acted now as a lightning rod, drawing down the rampaging energies generated by the Resonator the way innocence attracted Death Dogs. All along the line of contact was a flashing curtain of fire, displaying colors and patterns so antagonistic to his eyes that the merest glance set his stomach to churning. Anakerie, thankfully, was beyond any such response. She had tumbled into unconsciousness, from which she’d never awaken unless he acted at once and with unerring precision.
Her eyes kept wanting to roll up in their sockets, as the muscles of her body lost all tension and allowed them to drift out of alignment and focus. With a ruthless ferocity he’d learned during his travels, Thorn broadened his control over her body, risking his own in the process.
The acorns, too, were one of those spells he kept on a hair trigger. He completed the enchantment and flicked first one, then the other, from his grasp as if they were marbles. Only these he shot, not across the floor, but through the air.
One struck the lip of the dais and plopped onto the single step. The other struck an upright panel of the Resonator and came to rest on one of the revolving platters.
As Thorn watched through Anakerie’s eyes, the step of the dais where the acorn landed turned from crystal to granite, the effect spreading outward on either side, following the path of least resistance all the way around the platform. At the same time, the gears within the Resonator slowed, the mechan
ism itself groaning with almost human weariness and pain as it, too, underwent this transformation.
For Thorn, it was as though the world had been lifted from him. With a great gulp of air he took a breath. A bellow of agony came next, his torso doubling over with such force that Anakerie was cast aside like she weighed nothing, accompanied by a thunderous pounding in his chest as his heart resumed to beat.
He had no time to waste. Ignoring the protests of his battered body, Thorn dragged himself atop his companion, straddling her and placing both hands over her own heart.
“Breathe,” he commanded her, his own voice sounding so hoarse to his ears he must have shrieked until it broke, as Elora’s had done years ago.
“Damn you, Anakerie. I haven’t come this far to watch you die! You mind me, woman, you prove to me you’re a warrior worth the name. You fight for your life! Princess Royal of Angwyn, Warlord of the Maizan though you are, you do as I tell you—breathe!”
He felt her stir beneath him but he was more transfixed by her face. Her features had faded to a shade of alabaster, so drained of life they might have been a porcelain casting. As his words beat upon her, though, a flush returned to her cheeks, skin growing faintly warm to his touch. Eyes flickered beneath closed lids and she managed a tiny cough, a collapsing sigh to flush the last scraps of air from her exhausted lungs.
Then, for Thorn, the miracle occurred, as she responded immediately by drawing in a proper breath.
He fumbled for a pulse and found it strong and steady beneath his fingers.
He wanted to hug her, to cheer like a schoolboy given leave from class, but the tremendous crash of another block of falling crystal reminded him of their ongoing peril. Shielding her with his body as best he could and fighting back coughs from the pumice that filled the air, as impact after impact threw forth clouds of glittering dust, he cast about for a sight of the others.
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