by B. J. Keeton
“What can we do?” Ceril asked.
Penance.
“What do you mean?”
Three of my flock are dead. Three of yours will be, too. Then, we will discuss these connections you claim to seek.
“I don't think so,” Chuckie snapped.
You do not get to speak to me again, she said, turning toward Chuckie. You are responsible for two of the deaths. He, she pointed at Ceril, is responsible for the other.
“Why does he get to talk to you then?” Chuckie asked. As he spoke, his head snapped back. The others heard a dull, wet thud as it slammed into the post. Chuckie's body slumped.
The female Jaronya ignored him and moved to Ceril. He is not dead.
“Three of my people are not going to die here, Jaronya,” Ceril said. His voice was far more firm than he thought he could muster.
Utter that word again, and you will all die.
Harlo whined, “I told you, Ceril.” She clinched her eyes shut.
“Understood,” Ceril said. He strained against his bound hands. “Can you please let us off these stakes so we can talk like civilized people?”
Would civilized people kill those around them?
“Would civilized people kidnap anyone who happened to walk by? Would civilized people put their prisoners in a situation like this?”
You have been informed why you were abducted. My emissary assumed you were the messiahs spoken of by the Ancestors. It is clear that you are not.
“How is it clear?” Saryn asked.
That is not for you to know. Her attention was suddenly away from the five captives, but returned just as quickly. It is time. You have been judged.
The sigils projected in front of her flared. A sequence of expanding and contracting symbols illuminated the front of her robe, and finally one sigil glowed larger and brighter than the others.
As it did, Swinton screamed.
Everyone’s attention went to him. They craned their necks to see, pulling at their bindings as they saw a purple-green flame erupt from the top of the stake. It rolled down the spike and poured over his body. Conjured fire. Its gelatinous texture was impossible to miss as it oozed all over Swinton. He screamed as his skin darkened. Faint pops sounded as his eyes overheated and surged from their sockets. His skin ruptured as blisters formed and cracked. Chuckie was next to him, two feet away, and felt no heat.
“Swinton!” Ceril yelled. “Let him go.”
He just kept screaming, the Conjured fire burning brighter as the execution drew on. Swinton’s bindings eventually burned through, and he collapsed onto the floor of the chamber. The fire was recalled back to the top of the stake, and Swinton lay fleshless in front of the four of them.
It was fast, the priest said. Are we not merciful? Then, two more…
“Will not die,” Ceril completed. He thought fast. He had no idea how long anyone else had before she burned them alive. He pulled and struggled at his bonds, even Conjured a wrist-coating of nanites to help slip his bonds, but he could not. And then it dawned on him.
His Flameblade. If the sword could be called, he could hopefully use it to cut his bonds. He focused his fear and anger at the sword, wherever it was now, confiscated by the Jaronya. He had one shot at this, and that was if it worked at all. His heart began to pound, and the veins in his temples throbbed. Ceril could feel the pressure inside his head as his fear and anger broke through whatever barrier the priest had placed between his weapon and him. The sword appeared in his hands with a whuff-pop, and its weight felt good. His anger dissipated and transformed into hope. Maybe he was going to get them out of this alive, after all. The ropes binding them fell away; the Flameblade had severed them as it materialized within them. Ceril had miscalculated and caught part of his arm and winced as the golden blade cut into his flesh, too. That would heal, though. He was free. He rotated his wrist, slicing the bindings on his feet, and bringing the sword to bear.
No, the priest said, and fire erupted from all four stakes. It poured downward toward the still-bound Charons. Though the fire radiated no external heat, the light it created was brilliant. The whole chamber was lit with flickers of purple and green. Shadows danced, and so did Ceril. He climbed to his feet and made a quick slash at Chuckie's hands, loosening the bonds enough for him to break free. Harlo was next. The fire had begun to burn her shoulder, but Ceril was able to knock her clear before it coated her like it had Swinton.
Saryn, however, was screaming by the time Ceril was able to move back to her. He cut at her hands, freeing them, and kicked her to the ground, away from the fire. Her back was badly burned already.
“Harlo,” Ceril said to the medic. “Do what you can for her.”
As he spoke, two arcs of green energy shot directly at him and hit the sword. The Flameblade’s own purple-green aura seemed to get brighter in that moment as it absorbed the bolts. He had no time to marvel as the two Jaronya guards were on him, one reaching for his shoulders to push him to the ground. The other swung its sparking staff at his legs, going for the same result.
The priest remained silent. More of her robe's green symbols flared, and the fire that had once been limited to the stakes slithered across the floor toward the occupied Charons. Chuckie was the only member of the team capable of doing anything about it. He knelt behind Harlo as she worked on healing Saryn's back. He closed his eyes and placed his palms on the ground.
“Giving up already, Chuckie?” Harlo asked.
“Not hardly.”
Saying a prayer, are you, Charon? The priest taunted him. Your heretic gods have no power here.
Through clenched teeth, Chuckie said, “They might not, but I do.” His nanite sleeve erupted and ran off his body. He pushed as much anger as he could toward the tiny machines, and he was able to Conjure a dome of protective fire around himself, Saryn, and Harlo.
Harlo, noticing a change of light, looked up for a split-second to see what had happened. She saw Chuckie kneeling to maintain the Conjuring and turned immediately back to Saryn. She hoped that she could Conjure enough healing to be effective in the time Chuckie had bought them.
The purple-green flame washed over Chuckie's blue-white dome. The priest’s weapon coated the shield, but could not penetrate it. Chuckie grunted as the priest increased the intensity of her onslaught. He concentrated on maintaining his Conjuring. He had been trained to focus his emotions, and the fear he felt at not being good enough to protect his team was enough for a little while. Hopefully, that would be long enough. In the back of his mind, he hoped that Ceril could find a way out of this. He wasn't sure how long he could keep this together.
The Jaronya guard had succeeded in pushing Ceril to the ground, but he went with it and tucked himself into a roll, avoiding the other guard's weapon altogether. He stood up and thrust his Flameblade blindly behind him—a maneuver Bryt had warned him against numerous times. It left him too open. But when it worked, it worked.
And this time, it worked. Ceril’s blind strike grazed one of the Jaronya, cutting the angel’s arm as he tried to swing his staff at Ceril. It was enough to deflect the blow. If only Bryt could have seen it save his life.
The unwounded guard came toward Ceril again with its staff pointed at him. A bolt of green electricity flew toward Ceril and then arced directly into his Flameblade. The sword flared and the arc of energy dissipated harmlessly.
Ceril quickly looked around the room for his friends. He didn't see them, but he did notice Chuckie's dome. He hoped it was doing what it needed to and that Chuckie would be strong enough to hold it. Meanwhile, the priest's fire was creeping closer to Ceril and the two guards, and when it got there, Chuckie would be able to do nothing to help.
The guard whose arm Ceril had cut swung his staff at Ceril. Apparently, he had lost no strength from the slight wound Ceril had given him. Ceril ducked the attack and countered with a stabbing thrust of his own sword that the Jaronya parried gracefully. The other Jaronya took that opportunity to connect his fist with the back of
Ceril's head.
Ceril’s couldn’t see, and then he collapsed. He found himself lying on his stomach, dazed from the blow, when one of the Jaronya’s staves connected with his back. Ice ran up his spine, and Ceril was briefly thankful he hadn’t heard a snap or a crack. He gathered his wits long enough to roll to his right, away from another bolt of electricity that had been directed at his head.
He tried to stand, but the second Jaronya kicked him back down. His face crashed into the floor, and blood filled his mouth. He bit down on something hard, and spit out a tooth that had broken off from the impact. He had little time to think about the injury because one of the Jaronya picked him up by the scruff of the neck and threw him backward toward the wall.
Ceril was astonished that he still held his Flameblade, so as he flew backward, he made sure he never lost his grip. He slammed into the wall and slid to the floor. He stood up, barely dodging another bolt of energy.
His vision was clearing, so as one of the Jaronya guards rushed him, Ceril slashed downward. His blade caught the guard's staff on its upswing. Ceril used his body's momentum and punched the Jaronya square in the jaw while he had the staff pinned down. The Jaronya barely flinched.
Another arc of energy flew at Ceril, and again, the Flameblade absorbed the bolt and flared its purple-green glow. Ceril gripped his sword with two hands, hoping to take advantage of any opportunity his punch had afforded him. He caught the second Jaronya on its chin with the edge of his blade. He felt it catch under the angel’s chin, and he pushed harder into his enemy’s flesh. It gave way and severed the lower half of the Jaronya's face. Black blood went everywhere, and the Jaronya’s eyes went wide in pain. There were gurgles that probably would have been screams before its mouth had been cut off.
The wounded angel lunged at Ceril, swinging its staff with abandon. It was dying and desperate to take someone with it. Ceril ducked one swing and had to hop over the next. Purple electricity arced from the weapon as he did so, but it was all directed to his sword, which began to glow brighter and brighter.
The mouthless Jaronya stopped attacking and fixed its eyes on Ceril. The whole staff began to crackle with electricity—small and large arcs of green spiraled along its length. The weapon must have hit saturation because once the spiraling arcs began to appear as a solid glow around the staff, a storm leapt toward Ceril.
The young man had no time to move or dodge or even prepare himself. The only action he could take was to raise his sword to try to block it. He was lucky. The sword absorbed most of the incoming energy, but not all of it. Some energy rebounded and struck Ceril, scorching and burning him all along his arms and lower body. He knew that he couldn't withstand it for long, so he made one last charge at the dying Jaronya. The closer he got to the staff, the more of his body he could feel burning. He toughed through it—he had to if he didn't want to die—and slashed at his opponent's weapon. His Flameblade struck the staff hard, cutting through.
Ceril had not anticipated what would happen to all the staff’s energy after he sliced through it. The small explosion that occurred as his blade passed through the staff knocked him off his feet. He tumbled head over heels, and the world spun around him.
The faceless Jaronya was not so lucky, since the angel had been holding the weapon when it discharged. Its arms disintegrated, and the shockwave from the explosion caved in its chest. The winged attacker fell backwards as it died, black blood gurgling from the remaining half of its face.
Ceril did not see his opponent die. As he righted himself, a scream from behind him brought his attention to the other Jaronya. The guard charged at him, twirling his staff with only the faintest hints of it being electrified. The staff came down on his left, and Ceril dodged to the right just in time to dodge backward for another downward strike. On the third, he was ready, and he met the staff with his sword.
The force of their meeting shot pain up Ceril's arm, so he whipped his sword into an attack before he lost control of his weapon from the strain. The Jaronya easily dodged and brought his staff back around, connecting with Ceril's open right side.
Air rushed out of Ceril’s lungs, and he heard a wet crack. Pain clouded his vision, and he knew that at least one of his ribs was broken. From the way it felt, many probably were. He sucked in as much breath as he could and swung his sword again, but fell short of connecting with the Jaronya. He had to deal with broken ribs now; the pain was weakening his attacks. He knew he had to end the fight, and fast.
The Jaronya saw that Ceril was injured and backed up. It was not a move that indicated mercy, but instead a reevaluation of his attack strategy. The Jaronya Conjured his wings and lifted off the ground. His staff crackled with electricity that leapt at Ceril's sword in teasing jaunts. He circled high, and Ceril took the moment to be grateful for the reprieve. He knew that he could not let himself get too relaxed, but the moment of rest was nice.
The Jaronya noticed Ceril's slight relaxing and dove directly toward him. A scene from the field flashed in Ceril's mind. He saw the winged figure grab Chuckie and begin to fly away. He knew this wasn't the same Jaronya—that one was dead, and he had killed it—but Ceril felt this was an opportunity to make up for a missed opportunity. As the Jaronya swept by him, the staff burst with purple energy, connecting with Ceril's sword. The physical part of the staff connected with Ceril as he was distracted by the sword's energy absorption. He felt the bone just above his elbow snap, and he screamed in pain.
The Flameblade fell out of his hand, and rather than stoop to snatch it back up, he summoned it into his uninjured hand. The ribs on that side might be broken, but at least the arm wasn’t. He could still use the arm. When he had secured his weapon, he looked down at his broken arm. The bone protruded at a severe angle, but surprisingly it didn’t hurt. It would later. If later came. Blood flowed freely and pooled at his feet.
The Jaronya landed in front of him, knowing full well that Ceril was too injured to fight. The winged humanoid walked toward him as the Conjured fire from the priest crept up behind him. It had finally made its way to where they had been fighting. The Jaronya dropped his staff, letting the fire consume it. He did not need it to finish the injured young man.
The winged man reached out for Ceril with both arms, and picked him up by the neck. Ceril’s lungs burned almost immediately. He had been caught on an exhale, which meant he had significantly less oxygen to sustain him while he was unable to breathe. He had to act quickly if he was going to act at all. “You are no messiah,” the angel said.
You're damn right I'm not, Ceril thought as he thrust the sword upward with his good arm, which was still hindered by the broken ribs under it.
The Jaronya laughed at the wound. Ceril had stabbed him, he was sure of it, and he focused his eyes on where he had connected. It was a clean cut on the Jaronya's abdomen, but it was shallow. Ceril tried to push the blade further inside, tried to twist or cut some vital organ, but the pain in his ribs prevented him from putting any real force or leverage behind the weapon.
The Jaronya squeezed harder at Ceril’s neck, and the edges of his vision began to dim. The world was framed in blackness, and Ceril had one last gambit before he died. He wasn't getting any air, so he didn't need his breather anymore. He let the nanites that filled his mouth and nose join the rest of the sleeve. He then sent every nanite at his disposal down his arm toward the sword that was stuck inside the Jaronya's side.
Ceril had to maintain a physical connection with the nanites to stay in control and prevent them from going inert, so he let a tendril of blackness wrap around his wrist, a lifeline. The rest of the tiny machines traveled down the glowing purple-green blade and into the Jaronya's body. They coated the inside of the wound, and with the last bit of energy he had, Ceril focused on the fear of his imminent death to power the tiny machines. His Flameblade flared brightly as it released what Ceril thought was the stolen energy from the staff weapons. The nanites absorbed and amplified that energy and focused it inside the Jaronya choking Ceril
.
In an instant, Ceril found himself lying on the ground, gasping for breath. His right arm still held the Flameblade, but it was no longer stabbed inside the Jaronya. The guard’s top half had toppled backward, but its legs remained balanced upright. The Jaronya's black blood covered Ceril's body, but his Flameblade had burned so intensely that no blood stuck to its surface.
The priest’s Conjured fire, the fire that had killed Swinton and injured Saryn, continued to progress, as it coated both of the angels Ceril had killed and encircled him. His sword glowed brightly, and then extinguished. Ceril sat on a patch of tiled floor that was untouched by the priest’s gelatinous fire.
The priest walked through the fire and stood in front of him. The fire never touched her or her clothes. The sigils on the collar she wore were much larger now, radiant and terrifying. They appeared to shield her.
Well done, she said. Unfortunately, it was for nothing.
She pointed at Ceril's sword, and it flew into the fire as she curled her finger. Her other hand manipulated one of the sigils in front of her, twisted it, and Ceril stood up through no effort of his own. The flames moved closer to his feet, but never touched him. He felt no heat.
You are not the messiah, boy.
She twisted the symbol again, and Ceril rose off the ground. The flames closed in on where his feet had once been. As he looked around, he realized that was the only space in the chamber that was not covered by fire. He saw a bulge he assumed to be Chuckie's dome and hoped that his team was safe. Would be safe.
The priest pushed the sigil into her robe like a button, and Ceril crashed hard against the back wall of the chamber.
Heretic, the priest said, walking toward him. She held her hands out, and Ceril screamed.
Chapter thirty-Two
Ceril had always possessed a very active imagination; however, one thing he had never wondered about was what it would feel like to have his arm ripped off. It had never seemed like an issue, so he never given it much thought.