by Kal Spriggs
She tugged the dagger out, and a spray of crimson spurted over her hands and arms. The hot blood splattered her dress. It made the light dress cling to her in an obscene fashion that made her want to vomit.
The girl remained on the ground. Amelia grabbed the man's sword and passed her the dagger, “Keep quiet, there may be more.” The girl nodded slowly.
Amelia looked around, and listened. The tents, flames and smoke made her ears more reliable than her eyes. She heard a cry of pain, which cut off suddenly off to her right. “Stay here,” she said.
She moved in a crouch through the smoke, sword held uncertainly in her hand.
She stumbled over a body a dozen feet away. Another black-clad, masked man with a savage wound on his chest. The sticky pool of blood told Amelia that he was no threat. She hesitated over his body, tempted to grab his sword and take it back to the girl. A cry of shock from ahead of her put her inner turmoil to silence.
Heedless of the danger, Amelia ran forward into the smoke. Too late, she saw another dark-clad figure ahead of her. She blindly thrust out with her sword as she ran into him. They went down in a tangle and the man's scream of pain and shock made her recoil. She lost the bloody hilt of the sword when his elbow caught her in the forehead. She rolled away. Her head spun. Amelia felt a hand clamp on her shoulder.
Before she could struggle against this new attacker, she found herself drawn to her feet. She shook her head and her vision cleared to show the hand that held her belonged to Simonel. The Wold King had his sword drawn. Amelia followed his gaze to the half ring of black-clad assassins which she had blindly charged through. They had closed the gap left by their fallen companion.
She looked behind her and saw the short Wold, Nanamak, with a hatchet in each hand. He faced fifteen more assassins, which completed the ring. “Oh.”
“Nice strike there, one less to worry about,” Simonel said softly. Amelia looked over, and saw the man she'd hit had gone still. The sword emerged from his lower back, and Amelia realized she hit him from behind.
“Um,” Amelia looked around the ring. By her count sixteen men remained to face Simonel and another fifteen for Nanamak. “You can take them all, right? That's why they haven't attacked?”
Simonel chuckled softly. Nanamak spoke from behind her, “Together we can kill many of them... but their weapons are poisoned and they have an advantage in numbers we can't beat. They hesitate because they know the first ones to attack will almost certainly die... and because your entry killed their leader.”
“Excellent timing on that,” Simonel said softly.
“I didn't mean to kill him,” Amelia answered.
“He didn't mean to die, I'm certain,” Nanamak said.
She gazed around at the assassins, who seemed to gather themselves for an attack even as Nanamak spoke. She saw a pair of them step forward, their blades raised.
But then a blurred form swept from behind them. Amelia almost screamed then, for one of the men exploded in a flash of light and thunder. Bloody bits fanned out across a broad spread. The other screamed in a high voice as arcs of white energy rippled across his body. A moment later a woman walked calmly through the new gap. She wore a blue cloak with a hood trimmed in some kind of white fur that made her pale skin seem even lighter. Her red hair fell loosely over her face and the beauty in her unearthly face made Amelia gasp. In a soft, childlike voice, she said, “Cousin, it seems you are in need of some help.”
The assassins froze and those nearest the newcomer drew away. Amelia looked around the ring, somehow she could sense that the assassins knew something had changed. This strange woman had thrown them off, something not just unexpected, but completely unknown.
Simonel stood taller and cocked his head, “Is that you Seraphai? Why... I haven't seen you since...”
“Trouble,” Nanamak said. Amelia turned, and saw a dozen more of the assassins emerge from the smoke. Their arrival shifted the stand-off yet again. Amelia could feel the assassins confidence return.
One of the recent arrivals walked past the others and stood only a dozen feet away from Nanamak and his hatchets. “Kill the men, capture the women if it's convenient.”
“Well... that is unfortunate,” Simonel said.
***
Seraphai of the Shrouded Isle
Seraphai had felt a moment of hope as her arrival seemed to break the will of the assassins. She had spent the last three days in almost constant travel as her visions drove her onwards any time she so much as paused for rest. She had arrived exhausted, but certain that no matter what else occurred, her cousin Simonel and his guest must survive.
She'd managed to sneak close enough to two of the assassins to kill them with her spellgrafts. The two attacks were spells crafted in her body by her own design, and drew power from her mageblood. She didn't have much fight in her, not with how hard she'd driven herself. She stood tall, her hood drawn low over her face, her blonde hair loose and further hiding her face. Her right hand rested on the pommel of the sword she didn't dare draw and her left clutched at her engraved wand.
The arrival of the new assassins, confident and sure of victory felt like a fist closed over her heart. The pain came not from fear of death, nor even the certainty that in her current state, she might barely tip the scales.
She looked over at the three at the center of the ring of assassins. The Ancient, Nanamak, seemed ready to face his death, calm acceptance on the outside, but she felt the boiled rage that simmered just below the surface, not at his own death, but at the death of his pupil, his king. Seraphai tasted that rage, and the darkest parts of her soul welcomed it, wanted to rise up in similar passion.
In desperation, she looked at the other two and her eyes glanced over Simonel, who stood confident that while he would not survive, he might at least protect his guest from certain death. The woman, an outsider, not of the Wold or the Viani, seemed the most nervous. Yet Seraphai met her eyes and she almost fell into a well of strength. She felt pain in her, almost as severe as her own tormented soul. Yet... this woman had somehow drawn strength from her wounds. Seraphai had to look away from her, for she felt humbled in a way that made her feel inadequate.
Seraphai watched the assassin's leader step forward. Even before he spoke, she'd made her decision.
“Kill the men, capture the women if it is convenient,” His gloating voice sent a spike of rage to her very core. Seraphai didn't fight it, didn't force that emotion down. Instead she fed it. She poured every bit of pain and anger into her rage until her hands trembled and her body quivered. Even as the assassins leaped into motion and Nanamak and Simonel prepared to sell their lives dearly, she channeled all of her rage and hate into one single fiery instant. That was when she drew her sword.
***
Lady Amelia Tarken
Amelia saw the assassins move forward. She felt Simonel tense beside her, as he prepared to attack. She knew, instantly, that this Wold King would do his best to protect her, as his guest, even with his life.
Yet she felt something, a surge of almost alien emotion that drew her attention like a lodestone. The newcomer woman still stood motionless. Her hand rested loosely on the pommel of a sword. As Amelia met her gaze, she felt that surge grow stronger, in a way she couldn't describe.
In between one heartbeat an the next, the violet eyes that met her gaze turned blood red. The frail, beautiful woman drew her sword and the day seemed to darken. The sun dimmed and a pulsating orange glow seemed to envelope the world.
Then people began to die.
***
King Simonel Greeneye
Simonel heard Amelia gasp next to him, and then a moment later he felt a surge of energy, so close and so raw that it threw off his balance and made him stumble. He let out a cry of despair, then, for he knew the assassins would make short work of him in his moment of weakness.
But they did not attack.
He caught a blur of motion from his side. He turned just in time to see Seraphai finish off an assas
sin, three others behind her dead on their feet, yet to fall as she moved through them with impossible speed. One of the others had drawn back a spear, ready to throw at her back as she paused. Her hand extended her sword back towards him in a casual gesture and the assassin dropped lifeless as runes on the blade flickered with black fire.
Simonel shook his head. He forced himself into motion, despite the pulsating dread that hung over the clearing. He raced towards one of the assassins, gone still with terror at the horror that had already killed five men. Simonel took the man down with a single stroke and moved into the next, even as he heard Nanamak give his wailing battle cry.
He heard one of the assassins scream a shrill cry of absolute despair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw three more assassins fall as Seraphai tore through them. She had no grace or art to her attacks, but broad swings that tore off limbs and split heads and then moved on to the next attack before the ragged pieces could fall.
The assassin's leader shouted something and ran at Simonel.
Simonel felt an icy hand grab his heart as he realized that the leader's charge let him straight for Amelia. Simonel let out a cry of warning, even as he knew he couldn't get to her in time.
***
Lady Amelia Tarken
Amelia felt the world go mad. The woman, as if possessed by some malevolent spirit had left a swathe of carnage, even as Nanamak and Simonel attacked the other assassins. Yet the complete wrongness of the seeming savior left Amelia sick to her stomach and paralyzed.
She came back to herself as she saw Simonel shout out a warning. She turned just in time to see the leader of the assassins bear down on her.
For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Amelia locked gazes with him, and for a moment, she felt his every emotion. She sensed his despair at the knowledge that he would not survive. She felt his determination to finish off his target. She sensed how he saw her as merely an obstacle in his path, not a person, but a thing he would cut down in his attempt to kill the Wold King.
Amelia let out a scream at that thought, and her senses expanded not just to his emotions, but his thoughts. She felt his very mind, could see his memories of life flash behind his eyes. As if she lived it, she saw the trail of bodies and blood that had led him, Jett Rans, to his rank and position. She felt his sense of satisfaction when he ascended high in the Order of the New Moon. She saw the dark pleasures that his power and wealth allowed him to indulge. In the moment when she felt his mind, she lashed out. She turned all of her fear, all of her anguish upon him and in that moment, she felt his mind implode.
She saw Jett Rans, Senior Acolyte of the Order of the New Moon stumble to a halt. She saw blood run down his face from his nose and ears. Then he toppled to the ground motionless.
***
King Simonel Greeneye
Simonel saw the assassin leader fall. He felt some surprise, yet he mostly felt relief as he saw that Amelia remained unharmed. Simonel spun back to attack an assassin who had circled behind him. With two quick strikes he took the man's sword hand and then his head. When Simonel turned to find his next opponent, he saw Nanamak, Amelia, and Seraphai remained standing. Even as he watched, Seraphai moved to one of the wounded assassins and finished him with a single, vicious blow.
“Seraphai, stop,” Simonel said. She didn't seem to hear him, and had moved to the next wounded assassin. She raised her sword high. “Seraphai, stop!” Simonel shouted.
She paused, blade raised. Her blood-spattered face drawn back in a snarl. Simonel ran forward and stood before her, arm extended, “Seraphai...” He met her gaze. He realized with horror that her violet eyes had turned the color of fresh blood. He saw no thought, nothing but animal rage in her gaze. With horror, he realized exactly what their survival had cost her.
His hand clenched on his sword, even as she brought her cursed blade down on the wounded assassin in a blow that split his skull and sent a fan of blood across the clearing. Simonel saw only one thing he could do... and even then he feared he might not succeed.
Slowly, very slowly, he readied himself, even as she turned to move to the last of the wounded. He must strike quickly. If he failed to strike a killing blow, then she would undoubtedly turn on him. He knew the legends of her blade well and he knew that death would be the least of his suffering.
He became so focused on his next move that he never saw Amelia until she stepped into Seraphai's path and put her hands on his cousin's shoulders.
***
Lady Amelia Tarken
Amelia felt the roiling, alien, and terrible emotions that seemed to boil from the girl with the sword. She felt the wrongness, the unhealthy corruption that seemed to pulse from the sword, into the woman, and then back.
She didn't know what to do about that. She didn't know how she stopped Jett Rans. She didn't know how she was going to stop the woman before she killed the last of the assassins and then turned on the rest of the camp.
She just knew that she had to, and that no one else stood a chance.
And she owed her life to this woman, so she had to try.
Amelia calmly walked forward and stepped into the woman's path. The hate and rage that drew her face back into a leer made Amelia want to weep, even more than the blood red eyes that seemed to hold nothing but pain.
Amelia saw the woman pause, as if this non-attack seemed to break into the continuing cycle of rage. In that moment of hesitation, Amelia brought her hands up and clasped the woman's shoulders, and then opened her mind to her emotions and thoughts.
The woman's mind felt like a hurricane of madness.
Amelia seemed to stand on a barren, scorched plain. Gusts of hot, dry air carried the smell of fire and smoke from things that should not burn. Ahead of her, she saw a city aflame and an army of hulking, armored figures which poured out of the city. Their black armor glistened with blood. At their head, rode a slender female figure in tight, form-fitting black armor, inscribed with runes which burned brightly with orange fire. Under a full mask helm, the figure's mount seemed to be out of a nightmare, with broad, black leather wings, a heavy, armor-covered body, and six oddly jointed scaled legs that ended in broad talons.
Amelia heard a gasp behind her.
She turned and found the woman, tied to a stake, as if some sacrifice to this dark force. Her pale face seemed paler even than before and her white-blonde hair seemed almost to glow. Tears ran from her violet eyes, “I can't stop it, I can't stop it!” All at once, Amelia knew her name, could see the woman's childhood, in a land protected from the threats that haunted the rest of the world.
“Seraphai, what is this, what can't you stop?”
“I can't stop her, no matter what I do,” Seraphai said. Her tears continued to flow. “She took the sword and we can't stop her.”
“What is this place?” Amelia moved closer and she began to untie the ropes that held Seraphai.
The woman spoke quietly as Amelia worked the knots loose. “This is what will happen. This is what happens if she takes the sword, if she embraces the power that the Kingslayer left, the gift from Andoral Elhonas.”
“Where are we?” Amelia asked. The smoke from fires obscured the horizon, blotted out the sun. The only landmark was the approaching army and their leader.
“This is the Duchy of Asador. This is the last place to hold against her, but they fell too, and now nothing, not even the Darkstar oppose their rule... she is the consort and Andoral Elhonas is her King.”
Amelia felt a shiver of terror at those words. She had heard legends of the ancient Viani tyrant, the man who'd shattered their empire before her own ancestors had even come to Eoriel. The legends of slaughter, betrayal, and murder still lived on in the barbarism of the Norics and the savagery of the Armen, many of whom worshiped his spirit. Amelia finally released the last knot and pulled Seraphai away from the pillar.
She turned to find that the army had closed the distance. The Consort and her mount stood only a few yards away. The monstrous mount gave a terrible hiss
, and Amelia moved Seraphai behind her protectively. She didn't know what strength this vision of the future might have. Even so, Amelia would not let it harm the girl.
“Who are you?” Amelia demanded. Her voice echoed across the plain. The world seemed to tremble. The rider sat back on her saddle. The rider drew off her mask, and Amelia gasped in surprise as she spoke.
The voice came from the girl behind her as well, “I am Seraphai, Consort of Andoral Elhonas... and Queen of the World.”
***
King Simonel Greeneye
Simonel had prepared to lunge, desperate to prevent the inevitable violence that Amelia's action must provoke, yet he hesitated as both of them froze. Amelia had closed her eyes, and he saw her eyelids flicker, as if she had gone into some kind of trance dream state. He walked forward, his movement uncertain. He saw Nanamak move up to stand behind Seraphai.
“She has the cursed blade, Makhvili Dzala,” Nanamak said, his voice soft. “It would be a mercy to kill her.”
“Yes,” Simonel agreed.
“I cannot,” Nanamak said softly.
“I know,” Simonel said. He looked down at his own sword. “I don't know if I can either. But if she harms Amelia... I must.”
“Yes.” Nanamak said. “But I think Amelia might bring her back... She has Mind Magic.”
“She is a psychic?” Simonel looked at the woman he'd saved, his guest. It made the idea of her survival seem that much more miraculous. The spiritual wounds she suffered from the dark ritual would have scarred her mind and those gifted with mental abilities were often more vulnerable to such wounds, rather than less.
“It would appear so. She killed the leader of the assassins and he had to have training and defenses against such attacks.” Nanamak cocked his head, “With the right training, she might be very powerful indeed.”