“It doesn’t matter,” Dumas replied. She nodded toward the small ant of a figure below them. “That’s Tythonnia,” she said. “She’s the one who delivered the killing stroke on Thoma. It’s only right that she die first.”
The Journeyman watched quietly. He knew vaguely what came next and had moved away from the excitement. He’d watched matters unfold and avoided Tythonnia lest she recognize him. He was invisible, thanks to a bit of magic and he was both unseen and far from everything, far enough to survive what happened next … he hoped.
The renegades were ready, everything in its place. Mothers and fathers escorted their children and the animals away from the ritual circle. They stayed no closer than five hundred feet away, under the supervision of Snowbeard, who wielded a double-edged axe of polished brilliance, and Lorall with his longbow.
Berthal offered last-minute instructions to the sorcerers remaining behind to help, thirty all told. Some could barely cast a handful of minor, inoffensive spells, while others such as Tythonnia and Berthal had passed (or were capable of taking) the Test of High Sorcery. A select few versed well enough in Wyldling magic to use it with any proficiency also waited in the wings.
Five would conduct the ritual; another ten, led by Shasee, would then enter the gate and secure the keep on the other side. The remaining fifteen sorcerers would remain between the camp and the ritual to protect the camp if necessary.
Kinsley, Mariyah, and Tythonnia stood at the four cardinal points of the ritual, Tythonnia and Mariyah across from each other on the north-south axis, and Kinsley and a sorcerer named Hundor along the east-west axis. Hundor was a quiet man, a product of the White Robes who eventually found himself at odds with his own order. The Journeyman suspected a growing thirst for power drove Hundor, not that it would soon matter.
They were about to begin. Berthal stepped into the center of the circle and raised his arms for the ritual’s opening stroke. It was everything the Journeyman had been preparing for, waiting for-the moment was upon them.
He needed to see what happened that forced the orders to rewrite history and wipe out almost all mention of the event.
Tythonnia smiled as Berthal took his place at the center of the circle with his staff in one hand and the book in the other. He smiled back, his eyes practically glittering with anticipation. It was the kind of day the future would never forget. Shortly, the fortunes of spellcasters everywhere would change; nobody would be deprived of choice ever again. Nobody would be forced through the tortures of the test for the right to learn magic.
Berthal opened the book and stared deeply into its pages, as though each word were a keyhole. Tythonnia chanced a last glance at Shasee and the men and women waiting outside the circle. Then she looked at those forming the circle. Already Kinsley and Hundor had their eyes closed; Mariyah smiled at her. Both women closed their eyes as they focused to channel the magic through to Berthal.
He began speaking, his words reverberating deeply as though it were the song sung by ancient trees.
The language of the mystic unfurled through him, each word like a fat droplet of rain, pregnant with power. The magic flowed out of her like warm blood, comfortable and soothing.
Berthal suddenly caught his breath, and Tythonnia’s eyes flew open. More people gasped, the sorcerers outside the circle taking a step back. The book no longer rested in Berthal’s hands, but levitated before him. The pages flipped open, past lines of black and red scrawl. Some pages stopped turning long enough for a specific word to flash and vanish from the text.
Tythonnia cursed; it was a hidden spell, layered within the first.
“S-stop-aku colang keawetan,” Berthal cried, his own mouth revolting against him as it shifted between his words and the hidden spell. “St-stop-me, aku mencelik mati.”
Tythonnia struggled to act, to move, but the trap gripped her too and bled the magic from her. She felt one spell evaporate from her thoughts then another.
“Break the circle!” Shasee shouted. “Break the circle!”
“What’s happening?” Migress asked, watching as the sorcerers in the circle struggled against themselves, it seemed. The mercenaries lay near a small thatch of pine trees, hidden in the shadows of their boughs. Migress’s men fidgeted with bow or sword, nervous with such open displays of magic. Before them was the circle of sorcerers and beyond that the second group of fifteen watching the camp.
“Something’s wrong,” Hort said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dumas said. “Attack!”
“This isn’t right!” Hort said.
“It’s our only chance!” Dumas replied. She stared at Migress and Hort, but when they seemed too scared to move, she snarled a small curse. “Fine, but if you won’t attack-”
Before Hort could stop her, she pointed her blade at the group of sorcerers standing immediately outside the ritual circle.
“Halilintar,” she cried. Electricity traveled along one chain of her book and up her sword arm. A bolt of lightning crackled outward from the sword tip, the edge of its fan catching three renegades in the back as it spread. They screamed in pain and fell to the ground in spasms. The remaining renegades seemed caught off guard, putting out the ignited robes on their three injured companions, and slowly turning to face their attackers. Two were reaching into their pouches and preparing spells, however.
“-then defend yourselves!” Dumas concluded, an absolutely wicked leer carved into her face, a woman possessed by the madness that would stay dormant no longer.
In that moment, Hort realized how insane Dumas had actually grown.
At that moment, the kaleidoscopic flash and thunder of spells erupted.
At that moment, the sky above the ritual circle tore open like an iris.
At that moment, a legion of bone-chilling wails filled the air.
A peal of thunder and cries most dreadful rolled around the tongues of the mountains. Ladonna and Par-Salian had just entered the narrow line of trees when they heard the world itself becoming undone.
“It’s happening!” Ladonna shouted, running past the trees.
Ahead of them was a group of sorcerers, some running to help those trapped in the ritual circle and some retreating to the camp. Berthal had carved the circle into the earth, its borders set with rocks and the ground stained with runes. The markings and small trench seemed to glisten with a crimson sheen, as though filling with blood. In the circle, Berthal and Tythonnia, among others, stared helplessly at the red gash in the sky. Wails and howls erupted from its depths.
Beyond the circle, a group of sorcerers fired spells of fire and darts of light at another thatch of trees. Armed men emerged from the small grove and charged the sorcerers with swords and arrows. Dumas led the charge, her blade deflecting the darts of light aimed at her. Two sorcerers fell dead as arrows plunged into their necks and chests.
To Tythonnia’s far left was the encampment, the men, women, and children there frozen between fear and curiosity.
“Par-Salian, over there.” Ladonna pointed to the camp. “Help them escape; they’re too close! I’ll save Tythonnia!”
Par-Salian didn’t argue. He ran straight for the camp, waving his arms to get everyone to run. Nobody moved. They were all too dumbfounded to uproot themselves.
Ladonna ran toward the ritual circle, praying she could reach it in time. As if in terrible response, the first of the blight shades dropped to the ground.
They had been alien to Ansalon … until that moment.
The heavens were uncorked, the evil unleashed. Tythonnia watched in frozen horror as the first creature fell through the iris above them and landed nimbly on the ground. It appeared humanoid, with a tattered hood for a head, and a black cloak covering its otherwise naked body. Shadows wreathed its emaciated limbs and sometimes, when they parted, the creature’s skin vanished as well to reveal an oily bundle of exposed muscles. Tentacles of shadow rose from its body. A terrible and bitter chill emanated from the aperture above Tythonnia, an aperture into a world w
here a ruined keep stood on mud-cracked earth and the orange skies smelled of sulfur.
What frightened Tythonnia even more than the gleaming embers for eyes that glowed inside the creature’s cowl, or the hint of a puckered orifice for a mouth, was the dozens-or perhaps hundreds-more creatures that ran-no galloped- for the gate. And try as she might to move, to run, to seal the doorway, the ritual circle held her tight and continued to drain her magic. Another spell formed and dissipated.
One of the sorcerers outside the circle saw the creature and cried a warning. Those who could turned to look, but they all had bigger problems. Dumas was almost upon them, the men accompanying her not two seconds behind.
The creature remained low to the ground on arms and legs bent at unnatural angles. It seemed more wolf than human as it turned about and examined its surroundings. Then ignoring her and the four others in the ritual’s confines, it bounded out of the circle and barreled into the first sorcerer it saw, a woman.
Tythonnia watched in horror, helpless, as the creature swiped at anyone near it and tore terrible gashes into two sorcerers. The poor woman it attacked directly writhed in pain as the shadows surrounding its body seemed to drill into her flesh. She cried out, her skin graying and cracking, her body succumbing to a living putrefaction.
Then suddenly, the creature leaped onto another sorcerer and started a new attack. It hadn’t killed the first woman, but neither was she in any condition to defend herself.
More creatures dropped through the threshold, and the men with Dumas hesitated then stopped in their tracks.
Ladonna was about to cast a spell to smite the blight shade when it lunged and attacked a renegade outside the circle. She realized those in the circle were being bypassed. They fueled the gate; they would die last.
That suited Ladonna just fine. She had returned to save only Tythonnia, everyone else be damned. Par-Salian saving the children was merely a ruse to get him out of the way, protect him against his more noble nature. Anyone near the gate right then had little chance of survival.
Ladonna was close to the circle when five more blight shades dropped to the ground. They glanced around, searching for prey, and immediately bounded off in different directions. Two attacked the nearest sorcerers. Another passed by the closest wizards and headed straight for the men with Dumas. The last one headed right for her. She quickly prepared a spell and prayed Dumas would stop to fight the creatures.
Dumas, however, ignored the blight shades, and instead cut down the first sorcerer in her path.
What is she thinking? Ladonna wondered, but the only words that emerged from her lips were, “Sihir anak!” Four daggers of light blossomed and shot for the blight shade.
Look at the depths of their evil, Dumas thought as she reached the first sorcerer. See how they consort with those … things.
Her blade danced of its own accord to deflect another barrage of arcane darts. The sorcerer, a young man of farmer stock, backpedaled, trying desperately to prepare another spell.
This is all their doing, she thought. The three renegades summoned these monsters! Dumas’s blade seemed possessed, though the huntress knew it was the magical tome that honed her skills and protected her. Her blade found the sorcerer’s throat, cutting through it and the spell that he stuttered to unleash. She went for the next renegade.
See how the creature obeys-
Kills them? Why is it killing them? Something is wrong. A searing pain filled Dumas’s thoughts, like a hot needle sewing a filament of fire directly into her brain. She struggled to deal with the agony; her eyes shut; she fell to her knees and dropped her sword as her hands went to her temples. She felt as though she had just suffered a fatal wound. Was she dying?
Dumas opened her eyes despite the searing pain that followed. To her horror, she was still on her feet. She still held her sword and she still fought, running a sorcerer through with her blade. She was a puppet, guided by the instinct of the book.
Belize …
No! she thought. He had nothing to do with this. He wasn’t at the meeting with Astathan, Yasmine, and Reginald-Belize was alone. He did not demand the murder of three wizards for his own personal gain-in the courtyard where he opened my book.
The pain redoubled upon itself, and Dumas felt as though she might vomit from the agony. She couldn’t think clearly. She struggled to regain control of herself, but every time she forced her eyes open, she was killing someone else. She laughed hysterically.
Are there an infinite number of these creatures? Why are they killing their masters … unless? She wanted the pain to go away. She wanted to think clearly again and have purpose, direction.
Then say it, something said inside her head.
The three renegades summoned them, Dumas thought. And then turned on their allies. They are evil. Nothing is too degenerate for them.
Good girl.
The pain evaporated, and Dumas almost tripped over herself in regaining control. It was like a surreal race, she trying to catch up to her own body when her body suddenly stopped and she slammed into it. But she was focused again … and just in time.
A sorcerer with ebony skin and a look that could slaughter children was about to unleash a spell against her. He didn’t incant any words; he didn’t fumble for reagents or make his fingers dance. The arcane simply coalesced around his body, wild magic made manifest. Unlike the others, he looked reasonably competent. He would make for good practice before she got to Tythonnia.
Shasee wasn’t sure what he feared more, the monsters or the sword-wielding woman who seemed positively possessed as she cut through their ranks. Her expression seemed fluid, insane even. It shifted from a berserker’s fury to frightened and maniacal to resigned and then back to battle-frenzied. Despite being divorced from her actions, her body moved with unnatural grace. Even her own men seemed scared by her battle frenzy and fought at a distance. Distance was good. Distance was a magician’s friend.
To Shasee’s left a woman cried “Kendala!” The air shimmered and two arrows broke against her invisible wall. To his right, a man grunted and spun his two hands around each other. Wyldling tornadoes of fire suddenly spiraled up from the ground and swept through three creatures that were savaging a fallen sorcerer. The creatures screamed and bounded away, looking for easier prey. A dozen attacked, and more dropped through the rent in the sky.
The demented woman had hesitated. Her cloak shifted. Shasee finally saw the metal tome strapped to her chest. He knew then who she was, all the more reason to stop her, the blood-enemy of sorcerers and Vagros alike.
Dumas seemed lost for a moment, unable to focus. That is when Shasee saw his opportunity. He focused on the Wyldling, on the strings of chaotic magic all around them, the ones strummed to frenetic vibration with all the ambient magic and wild passions there that day, and he pulled the strings together. The demented woman turned and focused on him, a smile stretching her already-possessed face into an almost transcendent leer. She advanced, twirling the blade without feeling the weight of it.
“Die!” Shasee cried. He pulled at a thread of Wyldling magic and hurled it at her. The thread lengthened into an arrow, shot straight and true as though from a bow.
Dumas’s blade tried to intercept the attack, but she was too slow. The arrow sunk into her shoulder; the shaft bubbled and the leather around the wound disintegrated. Dumas screamed in pain and yanked the arrow free. The acid coating the arrow sizzled against her glove, but she pulled it off before the acid ate through it.
Shasee had her attention now.
Par-Salian raced for the camp, past the startled group of sorcerers. His legs burned with exhaustion, his heart shrinking at the growing howls of the unearthly. Before anyone could stop him, however, the sorcerers left behind to protect the camp shouted and pointed. Par-Salian glanced back and regretted doing so. Two of the undead monsters that Ladonna had called blight shades were racing for the six sorcerers who had stood their ground. Behind them, another pack of nine ran straight for the camp.<
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Only one sorcerer had managed to unleash a spell, but Par-Salian hissed a curse. Damn the caster for his inexperience; it was the wrong spell. A pattern of colors filled the air, meant to dazzle and enchant the attackers, but the undead were not easily beguiled. They broke easily through the rainbow hues and immediately leaped atop the sorcerer. He screamed as they putrefied him alive, his skin rotting and sloughing off.
Par-Salian stopped. The only way to save the camp was to stop the creatures from attacking. He had to stand and fight. He had to give the sorcerers a chance to survive.
The remaining sorcerers were stabbing and bludgeoning the two blight shades with their staves. Only one had the wherewithal to unleash a spell; she was a young girl with milky skin and almond eyes. She motioned and the tip of her stave glowed suddenly with wild arcane magic. She drove it down into the undead creature, impaling it and pinning it to the ground, struggling to keep it rooted while her compatriots finished it off. They didn’t see the half dozen blight shades bounding toward them.
Par-Salian pulled a ball of bat guano and sulfur from his pouch. His arms moved in broad strokes, like a monk practicing a kata, and the ball of guano ignited.
“Api hortasa,” he cried, unleashing the ball of flame before it could immolate him. The ball expanded, spit, and roared as it flew above the sorcerers. The fireball struck the earth right before reaching the undead and splashed outward. Four of the creatures were caught in the whoosh of flames. They screeched and writhed in agony, but the two that remained untouched sidestepped the burning ground and continued straight for them.
The sorcerers seemed confused. They knew Par-Salian, knew him as a spy. And yet he was helping them.
“Prepare yourselves!” Par-Salian shouted, drawing their attention back to the deadly enemy. He was going to need all the help he could get if they hoped to survive.
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