by Matthew Cook
I shake my head. “I don't know. I lost him in Griffin Park. He should be here by now. Lia, he's done something terrible."
She looks into my eyes, then nods. “Whatever it is, we will stop him."
I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod back, squeezing her shoulders.
"Where are the others? Where are the other mages?” I ask her.
She drops her eyes. “Many have fallen. Or have been forced to withdraw,” she says softly.
"The geomancers are regrouping,” she continues. “They suffered terribly when the gate was thrown down. So many of them were pouring their power into it, trying to keep it strong. When it broke, they felt its pain like wounds in their own bodies. They will need time to recover.
"My father sent the hydromancers into the City, to help with the fires. If the Mor get past us, what you see here will be nothing...” She gestures to the flames already taking hold in the venerable structures all around. “They have orders to regroup at the river, should this last bulwark fall, and use the waters there to flood the streets and drown as many of them as they can."
"Can't the fire mages help put them out?"
"They can, but father thought they would be more useful here, in combat. I agree."
The knot of aeromancers advances, the strong helping the exhausted. I trot beside Lia, pausing only long enough to scoop up a fallen soldier's sword. It feels good in my hand, its weight reassuring, even though I know it will be useless in the face of any real attack.
Humans and Mor alike have regained their feet, and stagger into fresh, if ragged, lines. All the while, the fire beasts continue to harass the enemy's flank, moving forward to strike, then pulling back before the shamans can bring the concentrated might of their wedges to bear.
"Why are you here, Lia?” I call after her. “I told Savard to send a man to find you. To take you someplace safe."
That stops her. She turns on her heel and glares at me, lightning flashing in her eyes. Some of the other wind mages look at us, frowns scoring their grimy faces.
"Yes, they found me,” she says. “I refused to go with them. Did you really think I would cower in some dark hole while my father fights? While you fight? I thought you knew me better than that."
Despite everything that has happened, I feel a grin blossoming on my face. Lia's certainty, and her righteous anger, radiate from her like heat from a blacksmith's forge. It feels good. So very, very good.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn and see one of Savard's men. The Gray Circle assassin looks haggard, his eyes red-rimmed, nestled amongst lines of soot and grime. There is blood on his mantle, I can smell it, the burnt-fish stench of the Mor.
"Where is your master?” I say, interrupting whatever he was about to say. “I need to tell him that I—"
"You lost sight of him,” he says. “We know. He was spotted nearby, headed this way. He has ... others with him."
He does not say who, or what, accompanies him, but we both know. I have seen the shriveled husks strewn along the streets.
"Where's the old woman? Where's Napaula?” I bark, as the aeromancers stop again, beginning a fresh chant. This time, Lia strides unhesitatingly to the forefront, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with half a dozen others and adding her voice to theirs.
"Someplace safe,” he calls back. “She is ... still alive."
I do not ask him for details. Even if he knows them, I do not want to hear them. Maybe later, but not now.
Just as the air mages’ newest chant is reaching its crescendo, a new set of screams reaches my ears. I turn towards them; they are coming from behind me. Before I can make out the source of the disturbance, someone shouts, “'Ware the lightning!” and I drop to my knee, hands pressed tight over my still-ringing ears.
But I do not look away, and that is why I see them first, illuminated in every gruesome detail by the lightning's merciless glare, before Savard's man or anyone else.
Rath. And ... something else. A half-skinned, bone-white creature, nine feet tall, striding close behind him.
Despite the titanic clap of thunder, many of the soldiers do not pause in their flight, and are knocked back, staggering, as the wall of noise crashes over them. I see Rath stagger as well, flinching away from the sound like a slap, but he manages to retain his footing.
"There!” I scream, rising. Despite my attempt to protect my ears, the thunder has onceagain deafened me, filling my head with a high-pitched squeal. I know no-one can hear me, so I point, gesturing broadly. The Gray Circle man follows the gesture, and I see his eyes go wide.
Rath shakes his head like a horse with a bee in its ear, then looks out across the wide square. I glance back, and see that the Mor formations have once again been scattered, with rings of cooked bodies surrounding blackened craters. I see Lia, half in a swoon, fall back into the arms of a fellow aeromancer, exhausted by the summoning she has just performed.
I turn my attention back to Rath, in time to see him raise up his arms. Even from a distance, I can see the look of mad joy on his face; see the lunatic grin that stretches his mouth. He beckons, and from behind him comes a skittering mass of darkness, shot through with gleams of bone white and blood red.
Sweetlings. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. More. More than I have ever seen. More than I ever thought I would see, a seething mass of rope-muscled limbs and jutting spines, flowing like a black tide around the vod'hule. I don't doubt that summoning so many would have struck me dead.
Such a summoning would have killed Rath, too, my sister whispers. It is his creature—it can call the sweetlings too, remember. Sete is not constrained by the limitations of flesh and blood, and can call as many minions as there are freshly-fallen souls to compel.
The sweetlings move forward, so fast, hopping or running as best fits their twisted anatomy. The sound their talons make against the stones, skitter-clack-skitter, skitter-clack-clack, rises clearly over the sudden silence that falls over men and Mor alike.
At their rear, the vod'hule raises its flayed arms, taloned hands outthrust. A new sound is heard: bodies flopping in jerks and spasms as lifeless muscles writhe and twist, curving spines into shocked question marks before the skin and muscle split asunder, revealing the nightmare form of yet another sweetling.
There are hundreds of human bodies in the square. Hundreds. Scattered amongst scores of fallen Mor. All begin to move—all—as their souls and mangled flesh are returned to a parody of life by Sete's impossible will.
For the Mor, the transformation is even more painful to watch. Stony armor flexes and stretches and, lacking the elasticity of human skin, finally bursts asunder from within as taloned paws claw their way into the reeking winter air. Mor blood sprays out in steaming, blue-black fans as Sete's brood tears its way into the world.
Just as when I summoned a sweetling from atop the wall, these new children are smaller than a full-grown Mor, yet still larger than a man, their gnarled shoulders supporting four mismatched arms. Spikes bristle from joints and seams, cruel blades of rock-hard bone, meant to rend and tear and catch.
Each looks out into the night through a pair of red-tinged eyes, glowing with madness from beneath jutting, lumpen brows. Most have no mouths, but a few open and close rude triangular flaps filled with needle teeth, lashing the air with long, barbed tongues.
The Mor reaction is swift and unequivocal. As one, they turn from their mortal foes and the beasts of flame and fire, to face this new threat. Every Mor voice is raised in a single, ear-piercing shriek, a sound of pure hate, pure terror. Their careful ranks and wedges scatter as they run forward, ignoring the human warriors still fighting at their flanks and rear.
I watch, dumbfounded, as our foe casts away anything resembling organization, or cooperation, dissolving before my very eyes from an army to a savage mob. All they have now is the strength of their loathing and fear. It is as if the very sight of the sweetlings has driven them mad.
They charge with the sound of a landslide, horned hooves ringing on the ston
es as they hurtle into combat. The sweetlings, their ranks swelling with every passing second, meet them without pause.
The two forces meet, crashing together like waves against rocky cliffs. Instantly, it is chaos. Mor warriors flail about with their claws and burning blades, crushing and stamping until their foes are reduced to piles of twitching gristle, which then crumble into greasy ash. Shamans wield their staffs and iron bars, whirling them amongst clouds of sparks, burning the souls from the surging undead.
But the sweetlings are so many, every one almost, if not more than, a match for the Mor they face. And they have the advantage, for every Mor that falls is instantly a vessel for one of Sete's new soldiers. As the Mor weaken, her brood grows in strength and power.
"Kirin, come on!” someone screams, yanking me backwards. I blink, only realizing a moment later that it is Lia. So riveted was I by the carnage before me, and by the grisly rebirth occurring all around, that I did not hear her.
"I ... What...?"
"Kirin, we must fall back. Now. To the gates of the Imperial Palace. We have lost more than half of the wall's defenders, and must regroup. If the Mor get past Rath's army—"
"They won't. Few will survive this massacre, but those who do will tell others what happened here,” I say, shivering as the words pass through me like razors, as sure and certain as a gods-given prophecy. Images fill my mind, vivid as a fever dream, impossible to ignore. They compel me to speak, tearing the words from my aching throat.
"The ones who escape will go to the hidden places, deep underground. There, they will call up an army the likes of which we have never seen. Every Mor that lives ... every one, young and old, warrior and shaman, hunter or hearthtender ... all will leave their homes and cities, and will not stop until they have scoured every last trace of men from the face of the world."
I blink as the vision of certainty breaks. The chill sensation leaves me, all at once, leaving me exhausted. Trembling, I sag to the stones.
"What ... What do you...” Lia stammers.
I look up at her, and feel a chill wetness on my cheeks. I wipe my tears, and my hand comes away red. I am crying tears of blood. I shake my head, splattering the snow with ruby drops, trying to push aside the last remnants of the vision.
"We must regroup, yes,” I say, my voice shaking only a little. “Immediately. But it is not the Mor we need to fear now."
"But they are still so many—"Lia begins.
"They are dead. They just don't know it yet,” I respond, shocked at the coldness in my own voice. “They have no choice but to fight, and so they will be destroyed. When they are, when they finally break, we'll need to be ready for them."
I point to the seething mass of sweetlings, and to Rath and his creature.
Lia follows the gesture, her brows knitting together. A moment later, she nods. Her eyes are hard and clear, and unafraid, and I feel my heart give a desperate lurch as a surge of love and admiration passes through me.
"Come on, then, we have to go,” she says, spinning on her heel."
"Where?"
"To talk to my father."
* * * *
Argus Cho stands at the rear of the mortal lines, close to the bronze and oak gates that shelter the Imperial Palace. He is surrounded by mages, milling knots of color: the brown of earth and the blue of water, white of air and red of fire. Cho himself wears his own colors, the charcoal and gold greatcoat that I first saw him in, so many brief weeks ago.
"Father!” Lia calls, pushing past the knots of elementalists. “Father, I must speak with you!"
Argus looks away from the men and women before him, leaders all of their various colleges, if the ornate insignia on their robes are any indication, and scowls.
"Lia. Gods above and below, I have a counterassault to plan, girl. What are you—” His eyes find my face, and I feel the intensity of his electric blue stare. Lightning and dancing flame shift and roil in those eyes, evidence of his mastery of both air and fire elemental magics.
"What is she doing here? Are you mad?” he cries, stepping forward. Argus reaches back, a nimbus of blue flame blossoming from his right hand. Snowflakes pop into steam all around him, and I feel a deadly warmth on my cheeks.
"No!” Lia shouts, stepping before me.
"Stand aside, Lia! I have a report from Savard about her."
"No, Father,” she says again, not moving. “This is not her fault. It is Rath of the house of Lan. This is his handiwork."
"The count tells me you're a necromancer, girl,” Argus calls out. As soon as the words are uttered, the mages surrounding us step back. I see flames and lightning in almost every eye, feel the ground trembling beneath my boots.
"I am. Was. I..."
Words fail me as, deep inside, the blood magic whips and flails, desperate to escape. To reach out and pierce the bodies of my enemies, ripping their lives out by their crimson roots. I screw shut my eyes, willing it with all my might to remain inside of me.
A moment later, I feel it relent, subsiding, just a bit. But enough. I open my eyes, and look at the ring of my executioners. I see no pity there; only judgment. With a word, Cho will command them to unleash the primal fury of their elemental allies.
"Go,” I say to Lia, pushing her aside.
"Kirin, I will not abandon you. I—"
"Go!" I scream at her. “He has made his decision, and I will not have you pay the price for my weakness."
Lia steps back, daunted by the vehemence of my response, then shakes her head. She returns to my side, and turns to face her father.
"I will not. Even after all you have done, it would be wrong to leave you."
I swallow my frustration, and relent, even as inside I give a secret cheer. My sister echoes it, her delighted laugh rising in my mind like the dawning sun, warming me from within.
I am not alone.
"Lia ... daughter ... please. Do not do this. We cannot afford to be divided—"
"Then stop fighting the woman who can help us and listen for once in your life,” she snaps, cutting him off. The mages surrounding us mumble, their faces surprised. Argus Cho blinks, his mouth hanging open for a moment. He scowls, but I see something else beneath his irritation, an expression of rueful pride.
"All right,” he says, his voice softening, “tell me why I should."
"Master, we have no time for this,” an aeromancer in an ornate, sapphire-trimmed robe says. “We should be organizing—"
"Then go and organize! Just leave me be for a moment. I will listen to what she has to say, and then I will make my decision. Go now!"
The elementalist backs away, nodding, his face darkening with fury. All around, the other elemental mages nod and busy themselves with their preparations.
"Now then,” Argus Cho says in a dangerously soft voice, leveling his lightning-filled gaze at me, “tell me why I shouldn't burn you down where you stand."
Once I begin speaking, I find it difficult to stop. There is so much. I tell him of my time on the wall, and of my healing of Captain Garrett with the power of the blood magic. Of the way it changed him, opening his mind to the thoughts of the Mor.
I tell him about my power to raise the dead, describing the sweetlings. Lia nods along, silently confirming everything I say, forestalling the questions I see growing in his eyes.
Then I speak of Rath Lan; our first meeting at Lia's welcome home party, then our second in the bazaar, on the same day I saw the sweetling. I tell Argus about returning to the marketplace, after being dismissed from my post atop the wall, and recount how the urchin Rolf and his boys led me to the manor house.
I struggle to explain Rath's theory of the Mors’ silent communication, and how he believes that it is this talent, not the blood magic, that results in the creation of sweetlings. From there, I find I cannot avoid speaking of Napaula any further.
When I speak of the old woman, and her child, I feel tears in my throat, thick and choking. I struggle to finish, to remain concise and calm, even as I feel my eye
s yearning to return to the sight of the battle still raging across the square. I do not go into detail about the vod'hule—it is enough that he knows it is the creature, not Rath Lan, who is summoning the sweetlings.
When I am done, Argus takes a moment, staring down at the cobblestones and tugging at the strands of his black beard. After a time, he looks up. I see that the fire in his eyes has subsided to the dim red of banked coals.
"You have this old woman in custody?” Argus asks the Gray Circle man.
He nods. “She is someplace safe."
He turns to Lia. “And you saw all of this?"
"I saw the birth. And what Kirin did to ... spare the old woman.” She swallows, but does not tell him how I stole away a portion of her own life to bolster Napaula's flagging strength.
Across the vast courtyard, I hear a new sound. The Mor are wailing once more, the piping sound twisting on itself like the thrashings of a beheaded snake. Once again, visions intrude on my thoughts, emotions rolling over me like crashing surf. Fear. Terror. Anguish. A terrible, soul-deadening resignation.
"The Mor are losing,” I croak, my mouth and throat dry with the depth of their emotions. “Soon they will break, and the few remaining survivors will flee. When they do, this chapter of the war will end, but a new will begin."
"What must we do then?” Argus demands.
I look out, over the churning mass of Sete's ever-growing army. There are thousands now, many spawned from the shattered flesh of the dead Mor warriors.
A chill settles over me, a cold as intense as that at the bottom of a freshly-dug grave.
Gods help me. “I don't know."
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Mor keep fighting, long past the time that any human army would have broken and run, but nothing that lives, no force that draws breath, or that bleeds when cut, can stand forever against that which does not. By the time the inevitable occurs, they are truly decimated, reduced to a force one fifth the size of the army that shattered the gate protecting the Lion's Mouth.
We all know when the end comes. The remaining warriors and shamans send up a final cry, a sound of pure, distilled dismay. It echoes in the ear, and mind, of every man and women in the square.