Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle)
Page 30
When you are outnumbered you must always take the offense, because it will not be expected, and you must move in forms that are unconventional. You cannot stop stepping from form to form for then your enemies will close in on you and corner you. Maintain your momentum. Control the flow of the battle.
Elias spun on a heel, crouching low, to parry a blow as a masked figure snuck up on his flank. He resumed his forward course with a couple of syncopated side steps, cutting out the legs of another combatant.
You needn’t strike a fatal blow to take a man out of the fight. Such is the way in a large battle. When you don’t have the luxury of engaging a single enemy, cut a wrist here, a knee there, or buy time with a well placed kick. But remember this above all: Always step, and never, ever, stop cutting.
Elias’s sword clashed with another in a shower of sparks as the blue alloy of his blade met a Senestrati’s dark-tempered steel with concussive force. He stepped in and to one side, redirecting his foe’s blade, throwing him off balance, and then with a snapping kick crushed his adversary’s kneecap.
Elias tumbled around the reeling Senestrati and cut, severing his sword arm at the elbow. He somersaulted to avoid a bolt of energy and picked up a dark-steel short-sword with his free hand.
It is a sound strategy when facing overwhelming odds to fight with two weapons: a long-sword in one hand and a short-sword in the other. A weapon in the off-hand is better than a shield because it can also be used to feint and strike and will not throw off your balance, causing your arm to tire as quickly, or limit your mobility.
If you can master the Danse Mortum, the battle trance, you will be able to engage two separate enemies simultaneously, one with each weapon.
Elias glided around the throne room like a ghost, descending deeper into the battle trance, his mind freed from conscious thought. He acted out of instinct and intuition, out of muscle memory and reverse osmosis, as the countless hours of training with his father and the lessons therein interred blurred and merged together in a crimson haze.
In his mind’s-eye flashed a vision, long secreted away in his subconscious mind: He saw himself as a child sitting on his bed cross-legged. His child self stared blankly ahead, eyes fixed glassily on some distant point. His father sat in a chair by his bedside and spoke slowly, as if a professor lecturing to his class.
The vision had taken but a moment and departed as quickly as it had come. Still within the throes of the trance the remembrance quickly passed from his mind with the barest of curiosities, as if the thought had been conjured by some entity other than himself.
The Danse Mortum played on without Elias missing a beat.
Danica skidded into the throne room, Lar close on her heels. She quickly absorbed the carnage before her, reminiscent of an etching she had once seen in a book of scripture depicting the seventh layer of Hell. An orgy of severed limbs and bodiless heads lay strewn amongst corpses glistening with exposed sinew and muscle. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air, evidenced by blackened, shriveled, and smoking remains.
Revulsion quickened her pulse, yet something dark in her thrilled, buried in the primordial recesses of her psyche, and a near sexual excitement rushed through her body. With her thoughts thus occupied, Slade’s influence over her grew and his shade slithered from the shadows between worlds and into her consciousness.
Danica choked on her breath, for amongst the dead her brother whirled, his sword cutting in graceful, sweeping arcs. Blood spattered his face and throat, coated his arms, and sprayed from the rhythmic swinging of his blade. Danica sensed that something critical had changed in her brother.
Bolts of blue fire issued from beyond the ruined doors that led to the royal wing, spurring Danica into action. The gorge in her throat receded and she ran across the chamber, closing the gap between herself and Elias.
She cried out his name, dimly aware of Lar’s great-sword flashing in the periphery of her vision.
Elias, hearing her voice, startled. As his conscious mind reasserted control over his body the trance broke. Elias faltered as an intense fatigue washed over him. He lifted his sword to parry a scimitar, clenching his teeth with effort as the muscles in his arm burned in protest.
A blow caught him between the shoulder blades and he crumpled to the floor.
Danica howled a curse as dread stole through her. Elias rolled across the floor and tried desperately to gain his feet as Senestrati swarmed him. Terror gave way to a cold fury as waves of anger and hate tore through Danica in a frigid river of black emotion.
She grasped the first combatant she encountered on the crown of the head with her bare hand. A river of black emotion roiled in her and poured out in torrents of fell energy. An inhuman croak issued from the Senestrati as he shrank in on himself, withering like an over-ripened plum. He crumpled to the ground, leaving a fistful of hair in Danica’s hand, revealing a shiny, cancerous pate littered with age spots.
An electric rush stole up Danica’s spine and through her center, eliciting an ecstatic moan. With a languid flick of her wrist she cast out black spikes of fell energy, conjured with the ease of thought, which bore the strength of steel and the substance of shadow. A handful of Senestrati fell, impaled by the dread magic. Those that yet lived were unsanctimoniously hacked down by Lar.
Elias gained his feet, troubled by the delighted smirk Danica wore and doubly so by the black magic she had summoned with such apparent ease. However, given the circumstances, Elias put the thought aside and said, “Quickly, the royal wing has been breached, we have to get to the queen.”
The trio stole for the entrance to the royal wing, toward reinforced doors which now lay in ruin, scrambling over the tangled heaps of fallen guardsmen and Senestrati. Their reprieve, however, proved short lived for as Elias checked their retreat he saw yet another wave of the invaders sweep into the room, led, impossibly, by the pristine Sarad Minrengi, Prelate of the Church of the one God.
The Prelate’s hair, teeth, and eyes gleamed, the latter with an unholy light. Sarad had traded in his white robes for a black tunic and loose black trousers that flared at the hem, several inches short of his ankles.
Then several things happened at once: Sarad extended his hand, casting out a cone of indigo energy; a dozen Senestrati fanned out into the throne room; “Get down, Elias!” someone cried.
A near diaphanous shield of energy formed in front of the Marshal as he threw himself to a knee and intercepted the false Prelate’s blast of magic. Elias looked behind him to discover that Ogden, Phinneas, and Captain Blackwell had joined the fray from the royal wing even as his party had sought escape into it.
“Elias...get...behind...me,” Ogden rasped between clenched teeth.
Elias turned back to the shield Ogden had erected and saw the wizard quickly losing ground to the Prelate. Elias was currently situated between the shield and Ogden and if he didn’t move he would soon fall victim to Sarad’s cone of indigo magic as Ogden’s shield was repelled ever backward.
Elias knew at once that that Odgen was no match for the rapacious necromancer that had so eluded them, and in single combat the wizard would fall, leaving the royal wing and the queen vulnerable. That was something that Elias could not allow.
A ball of lead settled in his stomach and with a cold certainty he knew what must be done.
Elias cast a last glance behind him and locked eyes with Danica, who struggled to reach him even as Lar held her fast. No words came to him, so he offered her a wan smile and a wink.
Elias Duana tore his eyes away from his sister and raised his sword. He slipped into the void and relinquished his unconscious hold on the dam in his mind that restrained his power. He surrendered to it and let the magic flow through him.
He drove his sword into the granite flagstones. As the enchanted steel met the stone he willed the stored magic from the energy barrier he had absorbed to release. As he did so Elias cycled his own innate power into the flow, augmenting it and increasing its strength by magnitudes.
Elias had succeeded in sealing the royal wing, but with himself on the wrong side of the barrier.
Ogden’s spell winked out, and Sarad drew back his power and cast an appraising look at the Marshal and his forcefield.
Elias slowly looked up and drew himself to his full height. He knew that he had met the hour of his death. All that remained for him now was to sell his life as dearly as possible so that he could purchase his allies precious time with which to escape the palace.
Sarad raised a hand, bringing his advancing minions to a halt, as Elias fixed his stony gaze upon him. The Marshal’s face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes seemed to flicker and glower with preternatural energies.
“So,” Elias said, “it was you.”
“Yes,” Sarad answered without malice, “I am the Scarlet Hand.”
“Evil wears many masks, none as insidious as that of virtue,” Elias said as he leaned on his sword, feigning exhaustion. Rage tore through him, banishing his fatigue and hardening him for this, his final battle.
Sarad sighed and folded his hands benignly. He had dreamed of this moment ever since he had become aware of the prodigious upstart from the south. Yet now that he had won and had the Marshal at his mercy, his bloodlust cooled for he realized he could use a man like Duana. “We needn’t be enemies, Duana. Evil is a simpletons concept—one designed to maintain order and keep the masses docile. It is but a word that designates a difference of opinion, opposed view points and values, a way to justify one’s actions. Good, Evil, they do not exist except in our minds. My masters want the same thing you want—they want what was taken from them back. Put up your sword, Elias.” Sarad spread his hands and smiled thinly, a smile that spoke volumes: this has all been a misunderstanding; we’re the same really, you and I.
A tingling sensation crept up Elias’s neck and spread across the crown of his head, but he didn’t need the tell-tale pins-and-needles to know that Sarad covertly worked his magic to subvert his will. He sensed a feather light alien presence push at his thoughts and discerned an alteration in the quality of Sarad’s voice.
Elias envisioned a stone wall in his mind, impenetrable and unyielding, and poured his will into the image, creating a steadfast ward for his psyche.
Sarad’s probe expunged from Elias’s consciousness abruptly causing a slight backlash, which gave rise to a sharp pain in his temples and a brief disorienting of his senses. Sarad did not allow Elias to witness his discomfort, and only raised an eyebrow in response. The boy has some talent, he mused.
“My boy, don’t waste your life. You have such promise,” Sarad said, voicing his sincere thoughts. “Nations have survived coups before. It was never our intention to eradicate everyone from the old regime. We still need a country to rule.”
Elias responded by raising his sword and shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, readying himself for battle.
“You are outnumbered thirteen to one, you cannot hope to stand against so many.”
“Nevertheless,” Elias said, then charged.
†
Captain Blackwell struggled to contain the fury that was Danica Duana in his arms and advance at the same time. It proved a losing battle.
Lar, Phinneas, and Ogden looked on, mutely, each numbed with shock. A drawn Eithne turned on her heels and slapped Danica, hard.
“How dare you!” Danica spat, hysterical tears pouring into her mouth and rolling off her chin.
“No,” said Eithne, “How dare you. Your brother sacrificed himself to save our lives. If you die here his sacrifice is in vain, and I won’t allow that. We must survive and escape so that we can sow our vengeance. We cannot let the Scarlet Hand win and House Senestrati return.”
Danica ceased struggling and her eyes became cold green stones. “Give me your word that you will see them dead. All of them.”
“You have it. The people of Galacia will remember this day. They will remember the name Elias Duana.”
Bryn watched the interchange numbly. Then a sharp twinge of pain rose in her chest as what she hadn’t allowed herself to think broke through the deep silence in her mind that shock had erected—the man she loved was dead.
†
With a casual flick of his wrist, Sarad cast a white beam of energy speckled with bruise colored flecks at the charging Elias.
Elias did not slow his charge as he swung his sword to intercept Sarad’s incinerating attack. He focused his will on the blade, and instead of absorbing the fell magic, he channeled it, instantly returning the blast at Sarad even as he surged forward.
Sarad, utterly unprepared for the counter attack, barely raised his hand in time, his flesh blackening and smoking in exquisite agony as he struggled to shield himself from the mélange of arcane energy. The force of his initial attack had gained momentum and strength in magnitudes as Elias had shaped it with his own power.
With supreme effort, Sarad recycled the magic and pushed it back at Elias, who advanced now as if wading through quicksand, once again channeling the raw force through his blade. Thus they were caught in a contest of wills for long seconds, which felt like hours to the arcanists as the gravity of their magic warped their perception of time.
It was to remain forever undecided as to who the eventual victor would have been, for Sarad growled a command between clenched teeth and his masked minions swarmed Elias.
As they closed, Elias screamed, railing at his impotence. Then an improbable idea sprang into his mind, but he knew it was his only chance. Dropping into a deep crouch, he released his grip on his sword and threw himself into a somersault, driving his shoulder into one of his impending attacker’s legs and sending him sprawling. The river of magic, his sword in tow, washed past him, over his head, and rendered two of the flanking Senestrati to ash. As Elias gained his feet he drew the long, thin dagger Bryn had given him.
Sarad had already recovered and presently directed a bolt of inky energy at Elias with his fleeting strength, yet he was too late. As the bolt left his hand he looked down to see an ornate dagger hilt jutting from his chest, just below his left collar-bone. He touched a hand to the wound and looked stupidly at the blood on his fingers. Sarad observed with some surprise that he was on his knees. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Elias Duana, also on his knees, blood trickling down his brow, a scorch mark on his duster, and a wry smile playing across his lips.
Talinus, immensely pleased with himself that his gambit had paid off, materialized as Duana fell onto his face and went inert. “Stay your hand, imbeciles,” he rasped, “your master wants him alive! Now tend to your Lord, even now he is dying.”
Sleep well Marshal, thought the Imp, I have such plans for you.
Chapter 27
The Man Without a Face
Elias struggled to open his eyes. As his eyelids fluttered he detected the blurred features of a stone chamber cast in grey and shadowy tones. He knew it imperative that he wake, yet he was unable to remember why.
He tried to move but could not, somehow trapped between the waking world and the realm of dream. A din of voices resounded in his head, quiet yet insistent. A feminine voice separated from the throng, gentle yet firm: ...Elias...fight the shadow...do not slip into darkness...
Elias focused on flexing his fingers and toes and his consciousness shifted abruptly, struggling against an oppressive weight. His eyes snapped opened as a sharp gasp escaped his lips.
Red pain lanced through him like liquid fire. Muscles he didn’t know he had burned and groaned in protest. His head pulsed and throbbed, his vision narrowing and expanding with each ebb and flow of the blood thunderin
g through his skull.
Instinctively, he rolled onto his side. His sight became overwhelmed by pinpricks of light and he vomited. Once his stomach had emptied of bile he dry heaved. Each rasping cough wracked his torso with pain, aggravating his bruised and broken ribs.
When the dry heaves ceased and his vision cleared he saw a squat, shadowed figure crouched outside the single, spare and barred window high on the far wall. Red eyes, ablaze with preternatural energy regarded him candidly, unblinking. Ordinarily, fear would have quickened his heart in the presence of such an ominous threat, but exhaustion and the agony of his injuries had bred an apathy in him and only curiosity remained. He met the gaze of the entity on the other side of the window.
Darkness blurred the line of the figure and Elias could discern little detail, but he judged the creature to be compact, for though it crouched on the outside sill, the window was meager, some three feet high, and less than that in width, yet the creature was of a size to peer in at him. The diminutive creature cocked his head and a sound issued from it that was reminiscent of a cat’s purr, and for some reason that he couldn’t identify that unsettled Elias more than the scarlet eyes that held him transfixed.
Elias struggled to rise and pain lanced through his torso and stars danced before his field of vision as his grasp on consciousness fled. Stubborn yet to his core, he rose to his knees and then met resistance. Dumfounded, he looked to his hands and by the scant ambient light discovered that manacles bound his wrists to the floor via thick chains.
Elias looked up to the window. The scarlet of the eyes narrowed, hooded by heavy lids, and Elias thought he almost detected a skosh of sympathy in that fiery gaze.
Thus bemused, Elias teetered on his knees and crashed onto his back, unconscious before he hit the floor.
†
When Elias next awoke he had regained some control over his faculties. His bodily injuries, however, were another matter. His legs ached, having been awkwardly folded beneath him in his fitful sleep; his neck and shoulders were stiff and knotted; his head throbbed as if his heart had been relocated to his skull; his torso screamed in agony along his ribcage and his sternum burned in fiery pain with each ragged breath.