by David Hair
One had advanced much faster than the rest and Muhren strode forward to meet it. It emitted a shrieking sound, and the rest responded by surging into an awkward gait, rearing up so that their forelegs – long, jointed limbs with sharp, raking claws – were free to attack.
Alaron and Cym shivered and she whispered a prayer.
‘Go, you two,’ yelled Muhren, blurring into motion, ‘go – now!’
Alaron‘s jaw dropped as the watchman thrust out a hand and a curtain of fire rippled across the wet turf and engulfed the charging creatures. For a moment he thought it might have stopped them as two went down in the blaze, emitting a high-pitched squeal that tore at his eardrums, but one had managed to leap the fiery barrier and now it skidded towards them on the wet turf. It snapped at Muhren, but his form blurred with the shadows. The construct’s mandibles clashed on empty air and it wrenched its head about in frustrated fury. Then it spied Alaron and its eyes lit up.
Muhren lunged out of the darkness. He stabbed his sword into the creature’s side and twisted; dark blood sprayed and it sagged sideways, an unearthly shriek rending the night. Then the remaining two creatures leapt the fire barrier and charged. One went for Muhren; the other headed straight for Alaron.
‘Into the water!’ Muhren’s cry was frantic, and then he was rolling away from a stabbing tail-sting. The construct followed his roll, landing on him, and they heard him cry out. He stabbed upwards into its open mouth and the thing staggered, but its tail whipped over and punched its deadly venom onto Muhren’s chest before it toppled sideways.
An instant later, the other charging beast had reached Alaron.
Come on, you’re supposed to be able to do this, he snarled at himself, hurling up a Barrier-rune. He threw everything he could muster into it, but he knew he’d screwed it up even before the creature came straight through it. He desperately flung himself aside, feeling the stinger as it whipped past his thigh and stabbed the earth. He rolled and thrust blindly, in case it had followed his movement, but it hadn’t: it had careered straight onwards and was leaping at Cym, who was floating a foot above the flood-bank.
‘Cym!’ he screamed in horror.
The thing soared, its jaws snapping, its claws reaching, and she blurred away to the left – revealing the statue behind her, its bronze sword extended. The creature’s headlong leap ended in a sickening thud as it impaled itself upon the outstretched bronze weapon. The blade punched through the creature’s chest and came out its back. Black blood spurted as the creature thrashed weakly, then went limp.
Alaron looked back for Muhren, who was crawling to his feet, his battered breastplate covered in noisome fluids, his breathing laboured. ‘Muhren,’ he asked, ‘did it—? Are you—?’
‘Good Noros steel,’ the watchman panted, slapping at his dented breastplate. ‘But I’ll need a blacksmith.’ He turned and sent a further torrent of fire into the two burning creatures, which made them squeal like pigs and thrash about wildly before they went rigid and curled up like dead flies. ‘Are you both all right?’
Cym nodded. ‘The general got that one,’ she remarked of the one impaled on the statue.
‘I hope the real Jari is faring as well,’ Muhren panted. ‘Now it’s time for you to do as you’re told. Get into the bloody water and find that thing. I’ll keep anything from coming for you.’
‘Come with us,’ Alaron urged, ‘while there’s time.’
‘There is no time,’ he said grimly and pointed back across the green where the creatures had come from. A man walked towards them: Darius Fyrell. The Arcanum Magister clicked his fingers and the two burning construct corpses suddenly stood in a flux of purple gnosis-light, their eyes glowing as they sought Muhren.
‘Now run,’ Muhren shouted.
Alaron saw the burning gnosis-constructs stumble erect, violet necromantic-gnosis spilling from their eyes, and felt a sickening hopelessness. Cym gripped his shoulder. ‘Stand still,’ she hissed and clapped a hand over his mouth and nose. He felt fluid fill both and nearly screamed before he realised what she was doing. Water-breathing gnosis… He gasped, and nearly choked. Rukka, he thought, I’ve got to breathe water now, or I’ll drown up here! He ran desperately towards the top of the flood-bank and dived off the edge into the black water. Even as he plunged through the water, he heard another splash and he opened his eyes to see a pale shape dart past him in a swirl of bubbles. Gnosis-light flared, revealing Cym kicking off her shoes and billowing skirt before plunging downwards into the darkness.
Good idea! His own boots and clothes felt impossibly heavy. He fought his way free of the clothing and footwear, and managed to loop his belt, the sword still attached, over his shoulder. He’d not yet taken a breath, but he could delay it no longer and sucked in water, fearing the worst. But Cym’s spell worked, and all that hit the back of his throat was air.
Thanks and praise! He winced a little as the cold water filled his mouth and became air: it felt uncanny, but it was endurable. He created a gnosis-light before him, like a will o’ the wisp, and sent it ahead, lighting the way down into the depths of the lake.
The sword’s weight helped pull him downwards and he soon caught up with Cym. Her legs were pale in the dark water and her long black hair and white blouse rippled as she swam. She too had a gnosis-light bobbing before her. As they descended, fish darted aside in silvery flashes. A dark bulk loomed out of the depths, the roof of a drowned hovel. Cym flowed past it into what would have been an alley.
Alaron glanced back up at the shimmering surface far above, trying to quell his fear. How long have we got? Can Muhren hold out against Fyrell?
Belonius Vult’s moneyed friends liked to talk about ‘risk-free investments’, but Vult knew such things did not exist. There was risk in all things, and the bigger the gain, the bigger that risk.
He could live with that. You picked your battles, avoided foolish fights like Lukhazan and went for the jugular when the odds were tilted in your favour. He had never flinched in the face of danger, not when there were worthwhile gains to be had. They were always calculated risks, certainly – unknown risks were for fools dazzled by the prize.
But this is for the greatest prize of all.
Langstrit had erupted from the earth and soared into the skies like burning pitch hurled by a siege-engine. Fortunately, Vult had anticipated the potential for a chase; he had a skiff ready for just such an event. He gestured for Besko to follow him, leaving Fyrell and his entourage to mop up the others. A young pilot-mage crouched beside the tiller, his eyes eager. Vult leapt in beside him with gnosis-assisted grace, Besko clambered in behind him, then they lifted and caught the wind. In seconds they were soaring above Turm Zauberin, over the south wall and towards the Alps.
Their quarry flew before them, his arms spread like a bird, but they were gaining on him. Flying with just the gnosis was hard, while the skiff took almost no energy and travelled faster. We will catch you soon, Langstrit, Vult thought. You can’t keep that up for long, Ascendant or not.
He thought about who they faced: An Ascendant, ill-equipped and unused to exerting his powers –he’s already burning gnosis at a dangerous level. He’s an old man, despite his power, and frail after all those years we had him under lock and key.
‘Where is he going?’ Eli Besko panted.
Vult masked his disdain for the fat popinjay; Besko knew what was at stake, of course – that was unavoidable. But Vult had no intention that Besko should ever survive their victory. He wished for an instant that Gurvon Gyle was here, but that was a dangerous wish – with Gurvon present, he’d have to watch his back. At least Besko’s treacheries were containable.
‘There are two possibilities, Eli: one, that he has abandoned his accomplices and is running straight for the prize. Two; he seeks to divert us, and his accomplices are going for the prize.’
‘The former, surely,’ Besko said instantly. ‘The
stakes are too high to risk anything else.’
‘Perhaps – but it is in his nature to trust his underlings, and he is already an Ascendant. He can afford to run the other way. Worst case, he will still be what he is, an Ascendant mage. The second option cannot be ignored.’
Besko frowned, digesting the idea that Langstrit might have trustworthy accomplices, when Vult might feel that he himself did not. ‘You can trust me absolutely, Governor,’ he responded, tellingly.
Really? We’ll see … ‘That’s excellent news, Eli, but we are considering Langstrit: his character would lead one to believe that option two is the more likely, and that would mean Muhren and his young friends are the people we should be following. However, you will notice that I still elected to follow Langstrit south.’
Besko thought it through. ‘The risk of letting him go is too great. If he’s really the one going for the Scytale we’ll never get it back if we let him go. If his accomplices are the real hunters, Fyrell will destroy them; or we can return to their trail as soon as Fyrell confirms that fact.’
‘Correct, Eli: Darius Fyrell is more than a match for Muhren, and Mercer and his friends are worthless. No, the real challenge is ours: how do we deal with Jarius Langstrit?’
Besko swallowed, reflecting on his own narrow escape from annihilation when Langstrit fire-blasted the street as he flew up through the stone. ‘He might not even have a periapt attuned.’
‘True, but we cannot count on that. So what plan have you formed to take him down, Besko?’
Besko grimaced, clearly unused to thinking so hard. ‘Uh, he is a Thaumaturge, lord. His greatest strengths are the elements, but he is weak against mental attacks.’
‘Indeed.’ Vult sent his mind outwards, following that blaze of energy ahead. ‘And old, Eli: he is old. Conserve your powers, when the battle comes; remember, it is more economical to defend than to attack. We harry him, we wear him down. And if Fyrell sends confirmation that Muhren should be our target, then we break off immediately.’
Eli hissed suspiciously, ‘What if Fyrell betrays us, lord?’
‘Then we kill him. Do not fear, Eli. He won’t become Ascendant the moment he touches the thing – that’s a myth. I have spoken with Ascendants. The process takes hours. We can afford to be second to the Scytale, as long as we are not overly delayed.’
Vult watched Besko wondering just how secure his own position was. Wonder all you like, Eli; you won’t see my blow coming. Returning his attention to Langstrit, he noted the man was slowing. Flying-gnosis was very energy-hungry, and they had been gaining on him all the time, their pilot working with dogged skill. He smiled to himself. It will be soon.
Jarius Langstrit saw the windskiff clear the ridge behind him with a sinking heart. He could fly no further without destroying his own ability to fight when caught. He chose a rough gully where he might be able to use the terrain, and prepared to make his stand. He had barely thirty seconds to prepare. The slope was tussocky grass, studded with boulders. Part of his mind was tracking Muhren; the watchman was still running as the tenth night-bell rang miles away in the city, still audible here in the thin air of the alpine foothills. He glanced to his right, where the sun would rise within the hour.
So, old man, ready for one more battle?
Not really, was the answer. He hadn’t had time to attune to the periapt Muhren had slipped him, so every spell was costing thrice the energy it should. And pain accompanied every casting, a constriction of the chest, a hollowing of his gut that he didn’t like. He was badly out of practise – his spells were overdone, sloppy – and that could cost him everything. He was sodden with sweat and shaking in the cold air. Standing was an effort, and the fight had barely begun.
He consoled himself that if someone had come to his cell one of those nights after Vult’s questioning and offered him a chance to fight, he’d have taken it. He’d lost so much of himself, and so much time: eighteen years! The slow release of his memories from that crystal had been like waking up from a long, half-recalled dream. But that desperate scheme hatched so many years ago had come through in the end. He was himself again, and the goal for which he’d sacrificed himself was close.
But first he had to deal with his pursuers, though he felt frail, frighteningly weak. He watched the skiff glide closer. There were three men aboard, and one of them was definitely Belonius Vult.
Let’s see what I can do … He summoned Air-gnosis and sent it in a vicious gust that caught the skiff and hurled it to the rocks below. Evidently Vult had underestimated his reach, as there was no counter or ward raised against the strike. Two men spun from the craft as it fell, but the other clung on as the skiff slammed into the rocky slope and splintered. A shout was cut off instantly and he felt momentary guilt, but he reminded himself that Vult didn’t recruit innocents. One down.
He sent a ball of flame fully one hundred yards, far beyond the range a non-Ascendant could attain, and engulfed the shattered skiff in fire. That’s your wings clipped, Bel. But they would have noted his position now.
He moved, hobbling awkwardly, sucking in great mouthfuls of the thin mountain air, his lungs struggling with the altitude. His heart was tight in his chest. Who’s with you, Vult? Someone I know?
A flicker of movement to the left caught his eye: he blasted with Fire-gnosis, but only succeeded in scorching a patch of dewy grass. An illusion … it was the other mage: not Vult. Illusion had never been Vult’s affinity, despite people’s impressions of him. Vult was an absolute realist, a pragmatist who liked to know all the facts, then manipulate them. So it was Vult’s companion he faced.
If you want to play with illusions, stranger, try this. He sent an image of himself walking to the ridge-line, while he himself circled in the shadows. He made his illusory alter ego top the ridge and cautiously scan the gully. Come on, have a go! He waited eagerly for a bolt to flash from the darkness and reveal the hiding-place of his foe, but nothing came.
So it’s to be a stalking game. Damn. I don’t have the stamina for that.
He made his illusory form crouch, moved it out of sight, then let it fade to conserve energy. He felt the tentative touch of a mind, hunting his. That’s more what I expected, Belonius: a little Theurgy. He clamped down his aura, hiding from that questing touch, and clambered towards a cluster of broken boulders. Vult’s probing nagged at him, forcing him to strengthen his mind-wards. His control was draining without a periapt. He shuddered in the frigid air, each swallow chilling him. His chest felt tight, his heartbeat too rapid. It’s too damn cold here … too hard to breathe.
His tenuous link with Muhren flared suddenly: the watch captain was fighting someone or something, fighting hard. Damn … Kore be with you, Jens – Kore be with you all! He would not regret the decision to separate: if we’d fought in that street we’d all be dead. If I’d gone for the Scytale, I’d still have Vult on my arse. We did the right thing. Just let me live through this …
He topped the rise, sensed a movement and blazed flame at it, and something small squealed and died in the hiss and crackle of burning wet grass. A rabbit. Damned waste – stupid!
Blue fire flared from along the ridgeline, struck his shields and deflected away. He fired back at a dim shape walking towards him, and it vanished as the fire struck. Another damned illusion – it was too hard to tell in this pre-dawn dark. Damn this, I’m jumping at shadows and taunts!
Muhren’s hurt. He sensed the flare of pain and clenched his fists in helpless fury. I should have stayed with him. He felt his heart pounding over-fast, his blood pumping. I should be back at the lake – damn this— He ran back the way he had come, burst around a boulder and ran straight into Eli Besko.
So it’s you, you arse-licker!
The fat man squealed, erecting panicky shields in time to deflect Langstrit’s bolt of energy, and they staggered to a halt mere feet apart. Langstrit had raised his hands to pour flame into the man when Besko did something completely unexpected: he leapt at him, and his sheer bulk batte
red through the general’s shields and smashed him backwards into a boulder. Air belched from his lungs and his head crunched wetly against the jagged stone. He was wrenched back and hammered into the stone again as Besko shouted something. His face was maniacal. Langstrit’s vision dimmed, his chest felt about to burst and for an instant he was teetering on the edge of darkness. Then he snarled and roared flame from his mouth as if he were a dragon of Schlessen legend.
Besko screamed as his face melted, sinking to his knees as he went up like a torch, but Langstrit felt no pity. He could feel the pulpy wetness at the back of his skull and a throbbing pain in his chest that overwhelmed him. He fell to the ground, the pain in his chest ripping him apart. His left hand pawed impotently at his breast—
My heart! He managed a sob. His mind was clogged, his senses all astray. He saw Besko topple forward, flames licking at his body, and tried to focus beyond the agony in his breast. Two down …
But I’m rukked as well—
He tried to stand again, but that pain had become unendurable. He fell back, his mouth sucking like a beached fish, and he tried to feed himself oxygen through Air-gnosis, but the exertion made his heart pulse even more frenetically. He clawed the earth desperately. You’re having a heart attack, you old fool. Lie still and think!
He could feel Vult, making careful little forays, measuring his strength, assessing his weakness.
His foe didn’t reply, but a faint greenish cloud washed down the slope. Smoke? Poison? Langstrit pushed it away, and his heart thumped harder, harder. No, I won’t go out like this—
More green smoke washed down the slope: poisonous vapours. A cautious and clever attack, easier to launch than to counter. Somewhere in Norostein he felt Muhren take a savage wound, as if the blow had been inflicted upon his own flesh. But worse was the tearing thunder in his own chest, a wrenching that felt like being physically torn in two … He shook uncontrollably while the morning sky turned to midnight, desperately holding his last reserves inside, praying for one final chance.