The surrounding avatria were engulfed in the resulting ball of flame, shattered and instantly ignited as well, adding to the fire climbing above the city.
Then, the Aether died.
The burning towers fell. Bereft of their Aether, the avatria of the High Estates dropped from the sky. Already pushed from their foundations by the force of the Well’s explosion, the burning towers crashed downward onto the city below. Some simply collapsed, crushing those who were in the streets beneath them. Others fell over on their sides, their flaming structures cutting a swath of destruction in their path.
The once glorious skyline of Tjarlas had, in a matter of minutes, vanished forever beneath a pall of fire, smoke, and ash.
With it vanished the Aether Well that gathered Aether from and supplied Aether to the Northmarch Provinces, the outposts in Chaenandria and the vast Wells in southern Ephindria.
CHAPTER 31
Consequences
DRAKIS AND URULANI BOTH TURNED toward the sound of the blast. Smoke and flame burst upward from the ground, engulfing the avatria above the center of the detonation and igniting the falling avatria around it. Pieces of debris, trailing flame and smoke, soared upward, far above the tops of the tallest avatria in the center of the city, arching over in every direction.
Urulani instinctively clenched her arms tightly around Drakis.
“Marush!” Drakis shouted. “There’s a…”
The air was suddenly pressed out of Drakis’ lungs. The expanding wave of the blast slammed into them with frightening speed. It caught the extended wings of the dragon, vaulting him and his passengers suddenly forward and upward. Marush tumbled once, managed to steady himself for a moment but then was caught by an updraft of tremendous heat and spun, tumbling again.
The smoke engulfed them. Drakis choked and gagged on the smoke and dust, his face stinging with bits of miniscule debris. He could not see in the sudden darkness. He lost all sense of direction as they continued to tumble, blind and gasping.
Suddenly they burst into brilliant sunlight once again. Marush was laboring to keep them in the air. Drakis could hear the wheezing sounds coming from the dragon. They were still among the avatria of the city.
A city that was falling.
The floating avatria everywhere around them were crashing down hard onto the foundation subatria beneath them. Few of them settled straight down but began tipping sideways, their slender, exquisite shapes collapsing into each other, shattering and raining down on the crowded streets below.
The mad, insane streets below. He could hear the screams, the wails and the roar rising up from beneath the destruction—a howl that called him to join them.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way!” Drakis shouted to the streets below, to himself, and to the sky. “I didn’t want this!”
“Get us clear of the city,” Urulani urged Marush from behind Drakis, reaching forward and pressing her hand against the dragon’s neck. “Fly us back to the Rills. Quickly, Marush, before a building falls on us.”
The dragon worked his wings with a will, slipping between the collapsing avatria and bursting over the city wall, turning toward the east.
Tears streamed down Drakis’ cheeks, blown back by the wind. “It was not supposed to happen this way! What have I done? What have I done?”
Five hundred and fifteen leagues to the north of Tjarlas, Legate Xhu’chan stood on the field of victory known on the map only as the Flat’s Gap. It was a wide, featureless place with little to commend it. Those few who had tried to settle here soon moved on to lands that were more forgiving and bountiful. The goblin raiders occupied the better, more elevated lands to the west. The Mournful Mountains could barely be made out on the eastern horizon.
All that remained was the carnage of battle that disturbed the landscape, the most peculiar part of which now rested in a colossal heap on the ground before him situated atop what appeared to be the only mound within a hundred miles on the plains.
A dragon. An actual dragon.
It lay where it had crashed to the ground. The shattered form—charred in several places—no longer retained the grace of its flight that the Legate had marveled at when first he saw it rushing through the sky over the scattering, panicked ranks of his Legions and yet he still had to admire the power the beast represented even as it lay broken here on the plains. The dragon had engaged his foremost Legion—over eight thousand warriors—with a ground force of barely more than seven hundred ill-equipped rebels. Yet this single creature and its seven hundred had held his Legions at a standstill for three days. It had cost Xhu’chan nearly a full Cohort of warriors and nearly half a Centurai of Proxis before his army managed to bring it down.
Xhu’chan shook his head slowly in wonder.
Magnificent as the dragon was, it was the small figure of a human woman cradled in the crook of the dragon’s foreleg that held his wonder and attention. Her wispy, almost white hair shifted in the wind. She was a slight girl as humans go. She wore a patchwork of armor over a long coat of padded leather.
“Tsaj, you are sure this human girl is Drakis?” Xhu’chan asked.
“Yes, Legate,” Tsaj replied with a sharp bow of his head. “As you requested, we captured several of the rebels during the battle. All of them were kept apart from one another. Each one was brought here in turn to identify the body before their execution.”
“They all named this youth as Drakis?”
“Each of them swore to it,” Tsaj reported crisply. “Several of them shed tears at the sight of her.”
Xhu’chan considered the young woman more closely. The wounds to her body were evident—the blistering of her right leg from the Aether magic cast against the dragon as well as the four arrows piercing her left side and back.
The Legate stepped back quickly.
“My lord?” Tsaj asked with obviously feigned concern.
“Her face,” the Legate said. “It bothers me somehow.”
Tsaj leaned forward for a closer look. “I don’t see anything unusual, my lord. Just the face of a human—perhaps more comely than some by human standards but…”
“No, Tsaj,” the Legate frowned. “There is something about it that—that haunts me. She is smiling. She is smiling in death as though she had greeted an old friend. As though she is the fortunate one and I am left here to deal with…”
“Legate Xhu’chan!”
The Legate closed his black, featureless eyes for a moment. He reached back and scratched the point of his elongated head before he acknowledged the war-mage. “Have you found the main force yet, Kleidon?”
“No, Legate, but a far more urgent matter has come to our attention.” The aging war-mage wheezed slightly from his exertions in coming. “The Aether—it has vanished!”
“Vanished?” Xhu’chan exclaimed. “The Occuran will pay dearly for this! They assured us that the magic would flow without interruption to the front of the army advance!”
“No, Legate, you do not understand,” Kleidon said, anxiety showing in the throbbing veins sticking out along both sides of his long, bald skull. “The Occuran were not part of the Army. They do not receive their Devotions from our new altars but from their own altars linked to the folds. Now the folds have vanished to such a terrible extent that the Occuran have all fallen out of their Devotions. There were over sixty of their numbers attached to our advance. In each case they have gone either mad as Bolters or nearly unresponsive. There are only a handful of them left who are answering questions at all.”
“What about our own Devotions?” Xhu’chan asked quickly.
“They are holding,” Kleidon nodded though his grayish brow was wrinkled in concern. “But I have checked and they, too, are no longer receiving Aether from the folds. They are discharging into the army as they were meant to do—but we have no Aether for the war-mages or their Proxis on the battleline.”
“Then we must withdraw,” Tsaj interjected.
“How?” Kleidon snapped. “We’ve no Aether w
ith which to charge the folds and, it seems, no Occuran capable of opening them even if we did!”
“Tsaj!” Xhu’chan barked.
“My Legate!”
“Have the Legion commanders get their troops in order and prepared to march,” Xhu’chan ordered.
“March?” Kleidon blurted. “March where?”
“Back to Rhonas,” Xhu’chan replied.
“That’s over five hundred leagues!” Kleidon said in disbelief. “Without the folds?”
“Without the folds, if we must,” Xhu’chan said, shrugging his shoulders. The armor was beginning to feel heavy already.
“And how long will that take?” Kleidon asked.
“Not more than two months,” Xhu’chan answered.
“Two months?”
“Why? Are you in a hurry?” Xhu’chan asked with a calm that he did not feel. “Cheer up, old mage. Drakis is dead. We have a victory and all we have to do now is return within two months to claim it.”
“Why two months?” Tsaj asked behind the Legate.
“Because, Tsaj,” Xhu’chan answered. “In two months’ time, the Aether charge on those delightful new Devotions altars will expire and there won’t be any army left to march anywhere. Whatever has happened to our Aether, I believe it will be restored by the Will of the Emperor long before then and you’ll be toasting our victory in the halls of the Emperor himself not a day afterward.”
“And if not?” Kleidon asked quietly.
He looked once more down on the gentle, peaceful smile of the dead woman in the arms of the dragon.
“Then this may well be the last march for any of us,” Xhu’chan answered.
Ghenetar Praetus Betjarian was on the walls of Tjarlas when the Well exploded in the center of the city. He watched in horror as the power of the blast climbed higher and higher over the skies of the city and the spindle-beauty of the hundreds of avatria crashed down, collapsing and falling over. The fires in the center of the city merged into a single terrible storm of flames.
But it was the sound that unnerved him the most. A chorus of rage, laughter, fear, and madness echoed up from the streets behind him. The chaotic uproar of an entire city suddenly fallen out of Devotions. It took only minutes for the crowds to emerge from the streets, clutching whatever weapons they could find at hand.
And all their rage was directed at the warriors of their own Legions.
Betjarian did not understand why but realized almost at once that knowing why was not of immediate importance. What was important was that his army was now being attacked both from without the walls and within. His instinct as a warrior and a leader of armies dictated his actions.
He had to save his Legions.
At once he ordered the Legions within the walls to establish a front against the slaves and the citizens, both groups now enraged, insane, and desperate to attack their own army. The Vash Barracks within the city became their defense. Communication with the other Legions stationed around the city had failed completely and the war-mages were suddenly without connection to their Proxis in the field. Betjarian was forced to send runners with messages, ordering that all Legions converge on the Emperor’s Fold at the southeast part of the city. As long as the Devotions held his army together, he felt confident that he could retain command and get them out through the Emperor’s Fold back toward Zhadras. There he could regroup and determine how best to proceed against the rebel army.
He sent word out through the Legates, the Tribunes, the Centurai, and on down toward every warrior in the field to retreat back inside the city walls and make their way toward the Emperor’s Fold.
It was a good plan, based on everything Betjarian knew from his long years of experience.
Belag’s roar rose up with the fireball over the city. He lifted his arms above his head, the blood-soaked fur shining in the morning light.
The attack had fallen into desperate straits from their first charge at the gates. They had expected to be largely diversionary; trying to remain outside the range of the wall Proxis’ direct fire and feigning attacks until the Well could be brought down. But then the charge began too soon and at different times. Worse, the flipping of the central Aether Well had not taken place as expected. Belag could see from the battlefield the occasional flight of the dragons among the spires of the city as well as the flashes of magic following them. He could not make out what was pursuing the dragons but he had the sinking realization that they might not be able to count on the inversion of the Well at all; that they might have to take the city by force.
Then the gates had opened and Belag had almost despaired. The city was not only defended but apparently in force, contrary to everything they had thought the night before. Ranks of Rhonas warriors issued from the Northreach Gate. Worse, folds began opening behind them, pouring more of the Emperor’s warriors into the back of their lines. The front dissolved into a confused and desperate melee battle between different Octia and Groups folding across the lines, each trying to get a superior position over the other from both the Army of the Prophet and the Rhonas Legions. The elves made concerted efforts to push Belag’s Legions closer to the city wall and within more accurate range of the Proxis casting spells from the battlements.
Belag raged in frustration as his army began to dissolve under the force of so many enemy Proxis and their withering magic…but then all the world seemed to stop as the great city was engulfed in one, unthinkable cataclysm.
The thunder continued to roll out from over the city walls and down across the battlefield. The buildings of the Rhonas Empire dropped out of the sky behind the city wall, adding to the continuous rumbling shaking the ground under their feet.
“Kugan! Megash!” he yelled. “Re-form the line! It won’t be long now!”
The two manticore warlords gave the order, which was rapidly passed across the field. The manticorians pushed forward, coming shoulder to shoulder against the Rhonas warriors, who were stepping back from the battle line.
“Look at the wall!” Belag commanded but his words were unnecessary. The eyes of everyone were already raised to the city. “They’ve stopped! The Aether is gone…and the walls are silent! Their magic no longer rains from the sky! Drakis has robbed them of their might!”
The Legions of the Rhonas Empire were hastily retreating back through the gate.
“Belag!” Kugan said, his voice filled with hope and pride. Belag had appointed the manticore warlord of Jurusta Legion the week before. “The Rhonas Centurai behind our lines have been stranded. Their folds are no more. Our warriors have surrounded them. They are dying as we speak. And the Rhonas Legions before us are retreating toward the gate.”
Belag stood tall, straining to look over the tops of the warriors, a grim smile on his lionlike face. “That sounds very much like an invitation to me. Let’s follow them in. Sound the charge!”
Belag’s ancestral blood surged hot inside him. His was a great warrior race. He could not deny himself the glory of this charge. Despite the council of his warlords, Belag rushed to the front of the battle line of Group North. Quabet Legion was behind him. There were only one thousand, nine hundred of their original three thousand who remained to make the run for the gates.
Belag led them all the way across the bloodied ground. He expected the gates to close as they approached; they would have to bring their own mages up to assault the gates and break them down. But the gates remained open.
Belag raised up his hands, slowing the charge and brought them to a halt before the open gates. Unworldly sounds rolled out from beyond those gates—sounds that would forever be remembered by those of the Quabet Legion.
Alone, Belag entered the gates.
Alone, Belag returned a few moments later closing the gates behind him.
“Close all the gates,” Belag ordered in a quiet, dry voice. “Seal them shut. Let no one in. Let no one out.”
The word was passed to Group Central and Group South.
The city was sealed.
M
any asked Belag what he had seen within.
He remained silent.
The Theatre Calesti was burning furiously as K’yeran staggered onto the plaza known as Emperor’s Gallery. The screams, howling, and insane laughter rang in her ears. Smoke filled the plaza, making it difficult to see very far. This filled her inexplicably with fear: not because she was afraid of attack—she could bring to mind any number of ways to deal death—but a fear of being seen.
She was afraid someone would see her for who she was.
She jabbed her fist into her thigh, hoping the pain would somehow bring clarity to her thinking. It made no sense to her. Why should she care what people thought? Why should she feel this terrible dread and—could that be guilt? Is this what shame felt like? She was only doing her job, she told herself. This terrible, bloody, shameful job…
She closed her black eyes with her hands, leaning back against a broken wall, trying to rub the images from her mind away from her sight. But the images kept coming to her. Death, torture, pain—she had meted them all out without a second thought. Now each incident boiled up in her memory in shocking detail, and she felt physically ill at each recalled incident and image.
What is wrong with me?
She had barely managed to save herself when the Aether Well tore itself apart. Only the remaining charge in her Matei staff had allowed her to arrest her fall to any degree and even that had been a near thing. The avatria fell around her like stone rain. She had survived by training and instinct the terrible fall of the city.
But how will I survive the fall of my own mind?
She felt almost paralyzed by her own remorse.
It must be the magic of the humans, she thought. They’ve done this to me, conjured some spell to incapacitate me…
Incapacitate me from inflicting more pain…more evil…more lies…
Blood of the Emperor Page 25