by Tony Donadio
She closed her eyes and rested the flat of the blade against her forehead. She let the rage burn through her, free and unrestrained. It was an alien feeling to her kindly soul, but it comforted her. It left her with an odd sense of confidence and determination — and of clarity.
She thought about her promise to Gerard, that she would do what must be done. She had said the words, but they had been empty. The people — her people — would need guidance, leadership, inspiration. A frightened victim could not give it to them.
And that was what she had been. All she had done since the attack had begun was to react. To run, desperate and afraid, keeping one step ahead of the monsters that pursued her. To shed a tear for each protector that died to buy her a few more precious seconds of life.
But Gerard had believed in her — and with such quiet confidence that it had terrified her. Why?
She knew the answer now. It wasn’t demons, death, and slavery to the Dark that truly frightened her. It was the woman she would have to become to fight them.
She had to let go of that fear.
Again the theme shifted. It was building quickly now, relentlessly and inexorably. A rush of exultation ran through her as her heart leaped with it toward its crescendo.
She could no longer be the “Princess Bard.” That person — kind, fun-loving, mischievous, and completely lacking in malice — wouldn’t last five minutes in the world that now faced her. The blood of those who had died for her that day had already proven it.
She had to commit herself to the battle that was ahead of her. To find a way to bring the war to her enemies. To stop being a victim.
She forced herself to remember Gorath’s face, and Stefan’s screams. Her body shuddered with hatred for the creature that had murdered him. Her soul seized on it like a weapon. It was a weapon. She would make it a weapon.
A blast of horns rang out in her mind, powerful and defiant. Her thoughts — and the song — surged ruthlessly toward their climax.
The anger, and the hatred … they would give her the strength she needed. To become something else. Something stronger. Something … harder.
They would be the crucible to forge a heart of steel.
The crescendo struck her like a physical blow. It filled her with a promise of justice, of redemption, and of revenge. That she would never, ever, feel powerless again.
The song was hers. It was her.
New tears flowed from her already tear-stained eyes. But this time they were not tears of grief. They were tears of hope. She cried with love for her world and her people, and with determination to be their defender. And of anger, and hatred, for everything that threatened them.
The song washed over her, through her, and filled her. And as it did, the Ring of the Killravens began to burn with awakened magic.
Warrior Princess
Randia stood there for a long time, eyes closed, sword held before her. She let the song flow through her mind and soul, waiting for the sound of heavy footsteps. When she finally heard them, she was ready.
“A fine chase, little princess,” Gorath’s grating voice said. She thought she could actually detect a note of respect in it. “Especially the aqueduct ride. It was inspired.”
She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes. “I’m glad you approve,” she said coldly.
“I do. But as you can see, you cannot lose me. And there is nowhere left to run.”
“No,” she agreed. “There isn’t.”
Gorath’s heavy tread resumed. “Then it is time for you to surrender.”
She shook her head. A small smile appeared on her lips.
“You haven’t won yet. Not while the last Killraven still lives.”
Gorath chuckled. It continued toward her, massive feet thudding on the tiled walkway.
“Come, now, princess. Accept your fate. Your city is lost, and no one is coming to save you.”
She turned. Flamebane swept around in a graceful arc as she extended her arm and leveled it at the approaching monster. Wet locks of hair clung to her face as she opened her eyes.
“The question is not who is going to save me, demon,” she said steadily. “It’s who is going to save you?”
Gorath stopped. There was a preternaturally rich color to Randia’s blue eyes that it had not noticed before. It looked at her, suddenly wary.
A stiff wind swirled around the princess’ body. An aura of azure light shimmered for just an instant as it blew through her hair and clothes. When it was gone the water drenching them had vanished. All that was left were a few puddles gathered on the tiled walkway at her feet.
“This is pointless,” Gorath said. “You cannot defeat me with simple magic tricks.”
Her body moved into a fencer’s stance — blade forward, left hand extended behind her. Her hair, now dry, framed a face that was set with a hard, cold hatred.
“You sent the demons that killed my brother,” she said. “And murdered the love of my life. Now I’m going to kill you, Gorath. You’re going to be my first payment to your masters for what they’ve done here today.”
The demon began to move again. It circled slowly toward her, claws extended.
Randia waited, trying not to show her trepidation. She had begun to grasp the ring’s battle power, but her hold on it was tenuous. It was the song that had finally connected her with it, once she had fully committed herself to the fight. But how much control would it actually give her? She was mostly untrained in spellcraft, and knew that any magic it allowed her to wield would be raw and clumsy at best.
“A pity,” Gorath said at last. Its grating voice was laced with menace. “It would have been a coup to bring you in, alive and undamaged. I suppose I’ll just have to settle for … alive.”
The demon’s arm lashed out, and an aura of dark green magic leaped from its outstretched claws. It formed into a massive hand that streaked toward her, fingers outstretched.
Randia braced herself. The song thundered in her mind as her sword arm swept back, and then struck. Flamebane’s blade glinted with blue fire as it severed the groping digits in flight, and then impaled the palm with a quick riposte. There was a deafening shrieking noise, and the hand exploded in a shower of sapphire sparks.
Gorath’s eyes widened. It gestured with its other hand. Crimson electricity snapped and played around its claws, and then sprang toward her in a bolt of red lightning.
Randia’s left arm moved from behind her as the demon readied its spell. She brought it around to face the monster, palm outward. The Ring of the Killravens blazed with blue flame as the lightning struck. She screamed in pain as she felt the blast scorch her arm, but she held firm, pressing with all of her will against the attack.
For a long moment the electricity surged back and forth between their outstretched hands, crackling and dancing around them like a living thing. Then the song leaped in her mind. Gorath’s arm jerked back and it emitted a grating snarl of pain. There was a smell of burned flesh as the lightning backfired on the monster with a flash and a loud report.
Randia wavered, trying to catch her balance. She found her footing and steadied herself. She lowered Flamebane before her, holding it at the ready, her left hand balled into a fist at her side. The ring was shining brightly now, with a pure, blue magic that matched the color of her eyes — eyes that glared at the demon with hatred and defiance.
Gorath stepped back, breathing heavily. It stared at the ring on her hand, and a shadow of uncertainty passed over its demonic features. Then it started to circle toward her once again, approaching now with even greater caution. She noted with satisfaction that it seemed to be having difficulty moving its injured arm.
“Simple magic tricks,” she said scornfully. “Shall I show you another?”
She held her breath, and slowly released it when the demon didn’t call her bluff. Instead it spent a long moment staring at her, eyes burning with anger and frustration. She tried to brace herself for what would come next.
Gorath roared. Its battle
cry echoed loudly along the walls of the bluff. Then it was bearing down on her, claws outstretched.
The enormous creature was astonishingly fast for its size. Randia had only seconds to react before it was on her. It sprang high into the air to cover the last dozen feet between them, clearly giving up on any plan to take her alive. It meant to crush and rend her with all of its brutal strength.
The song sounded fast and true in her mind as the demon struck. She felt the ring’s magic flowing through her, investing her with strength and speed beyond anything she’d felt before. Gorath seemed to slip into slow motion as she surged forward, ducking under its leap. Flamebane slashed as the monster’s claws whistled through empty air above her, and she felt the blade bite hard into its flesh. Then she tucked into a roll and came up behind the creature, spinning to strike at it again from behind.
She had reckoned without the demon’s own agility. Its voice screeched in pain as the sword cut into its already injured forearm, leaving a long, deep gash. Its great feet struck the ground, cracking the tiles of the walkway as though from the force of twin hammers. Then it, too, was ducking aside and whirling to face her. Its arm arced toward her, spraying black ichor, fingers clenched.
Randia lunged, stabbing, but the demon was no longer where she’d expected it to be. She tried to shift back into a defensive stance, but the move had put her dangerously off-balance. She saw the fist coming at her face, and, in panic, struck out with her left hand to block it.
Gorath was nearly twice her height and many times her weight. Without protection, her arm would have been shattered by the impact. But the ring flared with sapphire brilliance, forming a shield of blue energy that desperately tried to deflect the strike.
It was almost enough to save her.
Their fists came together in a bone-crushing concussion. Gorath screamed in pain as the shield around her hand collapsed in an explosion of azure magic. She heard the song falter as a dissonant chord suddenly appeared in its proudly defiant theme.
A stinging shock shot up her arm, and she felt herself thrown backward by the force of the blow. It spun her like a top, hurling her around and down to sprawl face-first on the ground.
Randia lay on the tiled walkway. A desperate part of her yelled that she had to get back to her feet, to continue the fight, but her stunned mind and body wouldn’t respond. She tried to crawl away from the demon, but found that she couldn’t use her left arm. She started trying to drag herself along the ground with her right, and realized with a sudden shock that she’d lost her sword. Panicked, she managed to raise her head, to look around, to search for it …
An enormous clawed hand closed around her throat. She choked, suddenly unable to breathe, as it lifted her into the air. She struggled desperately to break free, but it was no use. The demon thrust its face into hers as she dangled in its grasp, feet kicking helplessly above the ground.
She found herself staring into Gorath’s eyes. Its labored growls of pain were so close, and so loud, that she could feel them resonating in her chest. Its breath was like a hot, stinking wind on her cheeks. It snarled at her and bared its fangs.
Randia’s eyes darted around, searching desperately for help. She saw that the demon was standing with its back to the stone balustrade bordering the edge of the terrace. Its other arm hung limply at its side, a ruined mass of gore, burnt flesh, and swollen, broken knuckles. Behind it lay a fifty foot drop to the lowest level of the Upper City.
There was no one else on the walkway. She was alone.
“Lord Borr was right,” Gorath said. It’s voice was a menacing hiss. “You Killravens are dangerous. You need to be killed — as swiftly and as brutally as possible.”
Its eyes narrowed, and it squeezed its hand.
Randia heard the song spiral out of control. She reached for it in her mind as it built toward a defeated crash, trying to steer it back to a theme of hope. The effort was futile. She grasped desperately again for the ring’s magic, but all she could touch were a few last glimmers of its power. She focused them against the demon’s hand, trying to keep it from crushing her throat, from tearing into her with its claws …
Gorath chuckled cruelly. It watched her with a demonic grin, clearly enjoying the sight, and the feel, of her helpless struggle.
“Perhaps,” it growled. “If you’d had more time. To learn to use your power. But your time is up, little princess.”
Her head swam and her vision blurred. She felt blood run down her neck as the monster’s taloned fingers cut her skin. Her struggles slowed, weakening. She was seconds from unconsciousness, and from death.
With the last of her strength and glaring with unrepentant hate, she spat in the demon’s face.
Gorath growled in anger. It drew back its head, fangs flashing, ready to strike.
Then its eyes shifted, looking over her shoulder. Randia saw with surprise that they were focused on something behind her. They widened — and for the first time, she saw fear on the demon’s face.
The pressure on her throat vanished as Gorath dropped her. She braced her legs as she fell, and her bare feet hit the tiled path with a stinging impact. She landed on her back and looked up.
Gorath was waving its good arm in a desperate incantation. A crimson ward began to take shape before it — but even as it did, it was struck by a blinding flash of white. The bolt tore through the demon’s magic as though it were paper. Randia blinked, momentarily blinded.
When her vision returned she saw Gorath slowly sinking toward the ground. Its knees buckled, and its body twisted sideways. Its face came into view, staring sightlessly down at her.
Through it, she saw the light of the setting sun.
Where the creature’s forehead had been only moments before there was now a hole penetrating the length of its massive skull. Behind and above it a puff of black smoke rose into the fiery orange sky. Then it collapsed, falling backward without a sound to disappear over the rail onto the terrace below.
She blinked again, trying to clear her eyes. She struggled to her hands and knees and looked up.
An old man was striding toward her. He was tall and gaunt, and wore a white cloak above the buckles and leather of a dark green adventurer’s tunic. His face was clean shaven, and his hair a shock of neatly trimmed white that framed his elderly features. In his hands he carried a tall staff of shining blue metal tipped with an orb of clear crystal.
She sobbed in deliverance. It was her grandfather. It was Lenard the Archmage.
Chapter 21 - The Terrible Truth
A Brush With Armageddon
Randia struggled to clear her head. The world still spun as she tried to rise. She failed, falling again to the tiled walkway.
She felt her grandfather kneel at her side. His hand gripped her shoulder to steady her.
“Quickly,” the Archmage said. His voice was gentle, but insistent. “The ring.”
She tried to focus on his face, and it seemed to help quell her dizziness. His kindly grey eyes were filled with relief at finding her, but also with desperate urgency.
“What?” she asked.
“The ring,” he repeated, extending his hand. “We have only moments, and our lives depend on it!”
She was shocked to hear a hint of panic in her grandfather’s voice. It sobered her immediately. Without hesitating she removed the ring and, taking his hand, slipped it onto his finger.
He rose swiftly to his feet, turning to face the railing over the heart of the city. He raised both hands, one holding his staff, the other now wearing the ring. Both shone with a sudden white fire as she felt him summon their magic.
She was a Killraven. Her very blood was attuned to the ring’s power, and to that of its wearer. She had felt that power before, and heard its song, when her brother Gerard had wielded it. She had touched it herself, however briefly and weakly, in her battle with Gorath.
What she sensed from her grandfather now went so far beyond either that she could only watch in amazement. She had always
known that he was the Archmage, but she had never truly understood what that meant.
She understood it now.
The ring’s magic connected them. Through it, she sensed the dire threat they faced. A malevolent presence was scrying for them. She could see it in her mind, like an evil, disembodied eye, sweeping back and forth across the southern part of the Upper City.
She felt the cloaking spell that her grandfather had woven to hide himself. She could almost see it, like a gray mist shimmering in the air around them. She knew it would not be strong enough to protect them. The immense power of the eye would cut it to shreds if its gaze fell directly upon the spot where they now stood. And it was only seconds from doing so. They would be caught, unless …
Her heart leapt as the song trumpeted in her mind. It rang with the sound of a hundred horns, announcing the start of a new theme — one that swept away the defeat and despair she had struggled with only moments before.
Lenard held up his hand, eyes closed in concentration. She felt his magic surge through the ring to reinforce the spell …
The eye fell on them. Randia held her breath as she felt its stare. She sensed its strength pressing against the cloak, trying to pierce it. She was naked to its gaze, her soul exposed to its malice, without hope of escape …
Again the horns sounded their heroic note, and her fear vanished. The eye moved on, sliding over the rail and down toward the terrace below them.
Randia climbed slowly to her feet. Wordlessly, she came to stand by her grandfather’s side, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. She wanted desperately to embrace him, but something told her that now was not the time.
The old Archmage took a long, deep breath, and then slowly let it out. He was shaking.
“I hope the world never knows how close it came to its end in that moment,” he said finally.
“Are we safe for now?” she asked.