He could be by her side in moments. He could swoop down and return to her. Together they could take on Aleksandra. Together they could win. They had done so before. Valentean’s heart began to beat so fast and so hard he felt as though it would burst from his chest. It was time to find her. Time to hold her again, to stare into her eyes and feel her lips against his. Then, as he took a step in the direction of Aleksandrya, a surge of chaos ran through his mind, and his head snapped toward the horizon, up over the mountain range in the direction of Grassan.
“It’s started,” he whispered to himself, feeling the surge of destruction. He knew his allies were in the thick of it, fighting to hold back the Aleksandryan storm. And he could tell by the level of angst, sadness, and anger carried to him through the air that the battle was not going in their favor. Valentean gritted his teeth and stared down once more at Aleksandrya. So close. So tantalizingly close. But he knew he had to wait. Seraphina was safe. She was in no danger. Maura, Nevick, and the others were. They needed him.
Valentean slammed his eyes shut, cursing the ineptitude of his companions and the need to once more rush to their side. He was torn between his selfish desire to reclaim the woman he loved and the small shred of duty his mind still clung to. He cried out in frustration at the maddening choice.
He took one long last look at Aleksandrya. His gaze traveled along the once familiar streets to rest on the dreadful sight of Aleksandra’s floating fortress. He glared at it, this symbol of hate—this avatar of everything he had lost. Maura had described it from the brief moment it had flown overhead following their escape from Kackritta, but words did it no justice. It was a monument of evil, and Valentean silently swore to tear it down stone by stone.
The vast black spike that stood atop the highest tower suddenly came alive with crimson light. He could feel the chaos that empowered it spreading throughout the city, searching for something. Then, the magic turned and moved up onto the mountain on which he stood. He felt the wave of energy wash over him and focus on him like an eyeball, zeroing in on his location. He could feel her through the chaos, sitting on the other side of that wave. He could sense the flames that fueled her power as those within his own heart echoed them, like calling to like.
Valentean felt Aleksandra’s power grow momentarily as though she were challenging him, calling to him, daring him to venture into her domain. The chaos roared in his mind, and he wanted desperately to leap into the fray, to cave in the walls of her fortress, to engage his hated enemy once and for all. But he knew, mighty as he was now, he could not face her alone yet. The chaos within him grew with every outpouring, every flame he summoned, every punch he threw in anger. He was not her equal yet. He needed more time. He needed more conflict. He needed to pit himself against the scores of demons who laid waste to Grassan. He needed to spread his flames throughout the magical city. He needed to burn the Skirlack’s crimson flesh, needed to disintegrate their bones to ash, needed their blood to boil and evaporate. Only then might he be strong enough to stand against her.
“I know you can hear me,” Valentean said, the flames of his heart echoing in his tone. “I can feel your presence, you hateful witch. I just want you to know that I’m coming for you. I’m going to burn your empire to the ground. I’m going to stand over your blackened corpse, and I’m going to grind you into dust. You’ve taken so much from me. You’ve torn apart so many lives in the name of your insane, fanatic obsession. But death is coming for you, Aleksandra. I have become death, and when I arrive, you will burn in your own flame.”
He felt her power growing, spreading out in a show of monumental force, easily demonstrating the vast gap between them in terms of skill. She heard him, and this response was meant to intimidate. To show him that she was not afraid. But in that moment, Valentean realized that for the first time when faced with a demonstration of Aleksandra’s awesome power, neither was he.
XVIII: Ground Warfare
Nevick slammed his hand down upon the railing of The Heart of Casid’s upper deck. There were so many Skirlack falling into the city. He had to do something. The castle was still protected. It was still a safe haven from which Matias could enact his incredibly vague plan. But he had said that it would take time. And should that shield fall, there was no way he would have the time required.
“What do we do?” Michael asked, climbing out of the hatch in the floor to stand beside Nevick and look down at the horror show that unfolded beneath them. Nevick glared through the explosive aerial battle at the dreadnaught. It had yet to fire upon the city again, which must mean those massive spikes from which the powerful lightning had raged must require a period of time to gather energy. It had already been several minutes, and it could fire again at any moment. Nevick pointed one thick finger at the looming titan of a vessel.
“You need to get me on that ship.”
Michael’s eyes nearly bugged from his skull. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Do you see how many Skirlack are pouring out of that thing? It’s suicide.”
“Just get me on it. Let me handle that.”
“But—”
Nevick turned an icy glare in Michael’s direction. “NOW!” he roared over the din of battle.
“All right!” Michael yelled back, scampering toward the still open hatch. He began to lower himself toward the opening when he looked back up at his friend. “Good luck.” Nevick nodded to him in acknowledgement.
Michael had been correct. Thousands of Skirlack had already poured from the ship’s rear hatch with no end in sight. To journey inside would likely be a one-way trip. Getting there would also be troublesome. The remaining Aleksandryan airships had formed a blockade around their massive lead vessel, cutting off any path toward it. The Grassani ships continued to fire upon them, but many were being mowed down. Nevick felt his ship lurch toward his intended destination and began to gather his strength.
As the dreadnaught grew nearer, Nevick thought back to Kahntran and how Zouka had called upon his mana energy to create a transformation that defied Nevick’s definition of what was possible. He had been trying unsuccessfully for months to duplicate the feat, skirting so close to it that he could almost taste the power on several occasions. Now though, failure was not an option. He had to enter that beast of a ship. He had to cripple that weapon. He had to buy Matias the time he needed, and he had to survive. Deana was down there on the ground, and every single Skirlack that poured from the dreadnaught was potentially the demon that would end her life.
Nevick felt the pulsating power of mana energy fill him with its intoxicating flow. He felt the familiarity of his muscles hardening and growing, his pectorals pressing against the breastplate of his armor. He felt strong, but this was all familiar territory. This was power he had touched previously, and it was not enough. As the dreadnaught and the blockade of smaller ships drew closer, he began to panic. He was so close now, but the transformation remained just out of his reach. He thought back on Matias, Maura, and Nahzarro, who were counting on him within the shielding bubble of magic. He thought of Deana, alone and in the line of fire within the crazed battle that raged on the ground. And then his thoughts drifted to her injury, to the chair she would always require. He thought of his failure to protect her. To protect all who dwelled within Casid, not once but twice. He was letting all of them down again with his weakness.
Powerless, came the whispery voice in his head, reminding him of his constant failures. Weak, it breathed into his ear, bringing a feeling of melancholy loss to his addled heart. Failure, his doubt echoed through his mind in a rolling wave of anxiety and depression that threatened to seize his limbs. Then, there came another voice, one he knew well—his own.
Never again.
Nevick screamed in rage, a prolonged promise to the sky that his weakness would never be the cause of another tragedy, and as he fully committed himself to the vow he had made upon the shores of a ruined village so many months ago, he finally broke through. Mana seeped into e
very muscle, every bone, every cell and atom that composed his being, and as one they all swelled together.
His next scream came not of rage but of exhilaration. He watched his shadow, cast in the mid-morning sun, elongate as his body grew over a full meter. The armored casing that covered his chest and legs broke away, leaving him standing in naught but a bodysuit, which ripped and tore into rags along his erupting muscle mass. Nevick roared into the sky, more beast than man, so enthralled with the power that he almost forgot who and where he was. It all came flooding back to him though as his body stopped growing, and he growled and snarled at the mighty dreadnaught, which sat in the distance. The airship he rode upon was nearly within the line of fire, but Nevick knew that he would not have to put his friends’ lives in danger this time.
He reached down and took up the king’s battle-axe in one hand. It was so small now, like a child’s toy. He pumped the energy of mana into the weapon and felt it vibrate as emerald light engulfed it. He filled it with so much of the natural magical energy that he knew the axe was nearing its breaking point. He took several steps back and broke into a sprint, his long legs propelling him across the deck in seconds. Nevick leapt with all of his might, soaring through the air at a speed he would have thought unthinkable just moments ago.
He landed with a thud upon one of the airships in the blockade, his mammoth feet forming a dent in the upper deck. Tightening his grip upon the axe, he dashed past the shocked crew members who cowered at his approach and jumped high into the air once more. The dreadnaught rushed up at him, and impact was only seconds away. He hurled the battle-axe with all his might directly at the clear reinforced windows that marked the ship’s command deck.
Aurax’s eyes locked onto the incoming mass that hurtled through the sky. Was that the warrior of Casid? Had he undergone that brutish transformation that was such a tiresome source of pride for the Gorram general? Aurax bared his fangs at this incoming foe and summoned a score of Skirlack soldiers onto the deck. They appeared in a red haze all around him as the warrior let fly some sparking, green object from his meaty hand.
The weapon struck the clear viewport of the command deck and exploded in an emerald-tinted blast, which bathed the entire deck in light. As the spectacle receded, Aurax was shocked to see massive cracks forming in the reinforced window, spidering out from a shatter point the size of a Skirlack soldier’s chest. Then, the transformed human’s bulk slammed into it, and the entire viewport smashed in.
Nevick rolled to his feet amidst a shower of shrapnel thrown about in the wake of his dramatic entrance. He was in a huge circular dome in which dozens of human workers toiled with the many bits of machinery needed to run a behemoth like this. Nevick saw the puny form of Aurax glare at him in hatred, surrounded by a sea of red muscle. He had summoned a horde of Skirlack soldiers to his side, and to Nevick, from his new station in life, they looked laughably tiny, coming up no higher than his waist.
Without a word, he charged into the fray, swiping, bashing, and smashing Skirlack bodies to paste with his powerful arms and legs. They threw themselves in his path, but there was nothing they could do to stop him. He ran through them like a charging Potentias, battering them to and fro, filling the air with the bulky, limp bodies of his demonic foes. Finally, as he caved in a Skirlack’s torso with one punch, he noticed that lining the circular deck there were hooded human mages whose hands were plunged into a series of round recesses in the wall. Arcing bolts of lightning magic crackled along their limbs and flowed into the ship.
They’re charging the weapon, he realized and dashed toward the closest of them, intent on stopping them. They seemed to be in a trance, and none of them moved as he approached, thundering footsteps shaking the floor beneath them. Just before he could strike, a haze of red and brown flashed in front of him, and Aurax appeared there. The cleric was waving his arms in a complicated series of movements, brow furrowed in concentration, lips flying in a series of harsh sounding gibberish.
In the space between Nevick and the incorporeal demon, there loomed a massive red-tinted light. From this haze, there came a hulking, brutish, red-skinned Skirlack that was nearly a head taller than Nevick himself. Its sharp horns extended up nearly two meters on their own, and its mouth had so many long, jagged teeth that its lips could not close fully.
The demon behemoth intercepted Nevick’s advance, roaring and shoulder checking him into a nearby console, which smoked and exploded upon impact. Nevick rose to his feet once more and blocked an incoming punch from the creature. He slammed his own fist into its broad stomach muscles over and over, driving it back. He grabbed the monster by the horns and threw it backward, sending it skidding along the floor. Nevick ran once more toward the mages, reaching three of them, who he batted away with an immense forearm. They flew through the air, their residual lightning magic leaving a tingle upon his arm. There were still over twenty left.
The behemoth had risen to its feet again and tackled Nevick from behind, trying to punch at the back of his head as they grappled and rolled together along the deck. Nevick drove the point of his elbow into the monster’s chin, which knocked it back. He punched it hard in the face as they both rose to their feet, forcing a momentary two step recoil. He tried to follow that up with a front kick to the chest, but the creature side-stepped him, catching the leg. It wrapped a long, strong arm around his waist, hoisting the warrior into the air. The Skirlack ran with its captured foe, slamming Nevick into the wall, just beside the gaping hole in the viewport where he had entered.
Nevick punched the demon in the face five times to break its grip and back it off of him. Just beside him, more mage's toiled away, charging the dreadnaught’s weapon. He reached out with blinding swiftness, grabbing one by the head and yanked him from his post. Just then, the Skirlack rebounded against him, charging, wrapping its arms around Nevick’s waist and tackling him out through the open window. Nevick panicked as he, the monstrous demon, and the single mage fell out into the air.
He looked up in helpless angst as they tumbled away from the airship. The mage screamed in his grip, and Nevick squeezed his fist in frustration, popping the man’s head like a grape. He had failed to stop the weapon. The dreadnaught would soar on. As if to accentuate this point, the twin spikes of its main weapon began to spark.
As Matias reached into the armrest of his throne, Maura saw him draw out a long lever that he pulled with some difficulty. It squeaked and grinded as if it had not been used in a very long time. The sound of old machinery groaned to life all over the throne room, and the various gears visible through the mesh grating that ran in lines along the walls and floor began to turn.
At the king’s feet, the floor split open as the stone sank, forming a spiraling series of stairs that wound down into the depths of the castle.
“Come,” Matias said as he beckoned. Maura noticed him looking around the throne room, seemingly taking in every sight, every sound. He breathed deeply through the nose as if he were trying to memorize the smell of the chamber. Maura realized with a startling wave of premature grief that he was saying goodbye to his home.
Nahzarro must have noticed it too because a sobbing gasp escaped his lips. Matias began to descend the stairs, and Nahzarro moved to follow him. Maura fell into step beside the prince.
“What’s down there,” she asked him.
“A weapon that takes the magical energy of a person and weaponizes it in a sweeping wave that flies throughout the city, eliminating those the user sets their will upon.”
Maura’s eyes grew in astonishment as they slowly stalked toward the stairs. “How does it work?”
“A mage pumps his or her energy in, and the weapon magnifies it, directs it according to the user’s will.”
“But…the cost.”
“My father used it once before. During the Kahntran uprising.”
“And he survived,” Maura said, a spark of hope remaining in her voice.
“If the mage is powerful enough, they can survive it…mayb
e. But it took his magic, crippled his ability to draw upon it. He’s been a Shormloch ever since.”
Maura gasped in astonishment. “But if he has no magic left…”
“This time, the weapon will have nothing to draw on but his life energy. It will kill him.”
“But…” Maura started to say and realized she had nothing with which to complete that sentence. They came to the mouth of the opening.
“Only a member of the royal family can use it,” he said. “It won’t work for anyone else. My great-great-great-grandmother built it here beneath the palace. She said that a monarch had to be willing to sacrifice for their people. Had to be willing to die.” Nahzarro stood at the entrance and looked down as though he were looking into a bottomless pit of despair. “It should be me.”
“It could kill you,” Maura said. “At best, it would leave you without your magic.” Then, Nahzarro said something that changed her perception of him forever.
“I would gladly sacrifice my magic for my father, for my people, for my home.” It was such a real moment where the inner goodness of Nahzarro’s heart shone through to her. She felt tears sting her eyes and reached out to take his hand, her fingers intertwining with his.
“But your father won’t let you risk your life on the off chance you would survive it.” She thought back to Hehn, her own father, and his last words. Valentean, protect my daughter, he had said as he threw himself at an opponent he could never hope to defeat. “That’s what good fathers do.” The prince turned and looked into her eyes, the raw, naked sorrow of a boy about to lose his father etched across every bit of his chiseled face. She wanted so badly in that moment to hold him, to tell him all was going to work out, to kiss him, and fill him with the support he so desperately needed. She tapped the hand that held hers with her empty palm, rubbing it reassuringly as tears spilled from her eyes. “It’s going to…” she started to say before a bright light from the window drew their attention.
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