Twixt Heaven And Hell

by Tristan Gregory

  They had covered a great deal of ground, gathering up more soldiers and wizards as they went, before the enemy had fallen on them from all directions. Blood drenched the ground under the light of the newly-risen moon. The good news was that there was no sign of sorcerers, and with the help of the four wizards at the heart of the formation they managed to fight off the warriors of Pyre.

  When there were finally no more enemy within reach of his sword, Draman use his already-filthy tunic sleeve to wipe blood and sweat from his eyes. He looked to the nearest wizard in a wordless plea.

  "We have to get closer!" the man shouted at him, looking likewise drained. "Only a little, but we're not there yet. It would help if we could see the spells, as well."

  Nodding, Draman mustered enough breath for the command. They had perhaps fifteen hundred men left after that fight. It was a goodly chunk of Bastion's soldiers in the area, and Draman had taken a risk removing them from the efforts of containing the enemy. If they succeeded, then hunting the holdouts through the hills would be aggravating, but the true threat would be ended. If they failed...

  Well, then Draman would not be alive for his superiors to chastise. The thought gave him some small comfort as he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, moving up a rocky slope.

  "Enemies to the east," Harr announced. Draman immediately veered the force west. Up and down hills they went, avoiding the enemy where they could, slaughtering them where they must. They came across no more groups large enough to give them trouble.

  "Almost there!" called out another of the wizards. Harr nodded confirmation. "Straight north now, Captain," he indicated. "We're very close."

  "Wonderful," Draman breathed, but went in the direction indicated.

  At the top of the next hill, the spells could be seen burning ahead. The ground was flatter here, a wide plateau. Hundreds of enemy warriors were lit by the dancing orange flames of the open portals – but it was the moon that gave away the men of Bastion.

  The wizards were already lapsing into a casting trance, and Draman shouted to his soldiers. "We hold here until they do their work, boys! Let's put right to these whoresons. For Bastion!"

  ***

  Harr was oblivious to the battle around him. He could not assist this time – his business was with the magic alone.

  For only the third time during the battle he sent out the questing tendrils to one of the closer spells. It was more secure than the others he had dealt with – the enemy was keeping just a few of the spells open. Perhaps they had a limited supply of sorcerers who could cast the spell to this area. It would be good if that was so. Fewer spells to destroy would be a great boon to the already weary wizards.

  Harr had nearly completed his casting when the Far Door shuddered, and reversed. He was stunned for a brief moment as all magic – including the tendrils of his own spell – were drawn into the vortex.

  Darius had warned them of this final moment. It meant a sorcerer had already come through! He had to finish.

  But the spell had changed greatly along with the shift in its origin, and Harr was forced to strive against the warping effects of the magical siphon. He briefly probed the spell again, hoping to learn enough to attack it anew.

  Then the vortex quickened, and Harr's senses were pulled through the gate.

  For an infinitesimal span of time, Harr's mind hung between the points of the gate, between the physical ends of the spell. What he found there that made him pull back in terror. Pain racked him, shot through his mind and soul, and he lashed out in fear. He tore instinctively at the portal that led to such horror. The damage he caused was sucked through like all else. There was another shudder, but instead of violent detonation, the portal simply shimmered and died.

  Harr collapsed.

  ***

  It was the closest Mertoris Traigan had been to the border since his ascension to Warlord. He relished it. If only the enemy knew he was within the distance of a deep raid. How hard would they try to get to him? What would their chances be?

  Traigan often wondered just how effective the Thralls might be in open battle. They had stopped cold the handful of traitorous sorcerers who had attempted to rest the crimson crown from his head by magic, and stopped them with such brutality that no others had tried in years. Battle was a different beast. Might they not be a potent weapon there as well? Traigan knew better than to actually risk it – if he entered battle with such demon-spawned bodyguards, he would all too likely end up spitted on an Angel's blade. The imaginings amused him, though.

  He stood under a small torch-lit pavilion, accompanied by a pair of the most able generals as well as the tables which held his precious maps. They were with the bulk of the attacking forces, and the clamor of the men as they flooded into the gates made it necessary to speak loudly even to someone nearby. The camp's proximity to the area of attack allowed the spells to be cast more efficiently and thus to continue for a longer time, delivering more warriors per sorcerer. There were invaders located in other camps as well, primarily those of the various feint attacks he'd sent to nearer points of the Herosh Valley – that which the enemy named Threeforts.

  Traigan had insisted on bringing the command of the battle here for a number of reasons, though primary amongst them was simply his desire to be physically near the War again. Globes were less easily blocked the closer they were to each other, preventing the Enemy from cutting off his link to the battle. He had three globes here. One linked to Pyre, and the other two were to be used by the invaders once they had established enough of a presence in the Valley to worry about setting up permanent communication.

  It was unlikely that this battle would be over as quickly as the others. Traigan often said that you can surprise an opponent twice with the same trick. Even a clever man, if you vary the details enough the second time around. Only a great fool was taken in on a third go.

  Traigan did not have the fortune to oppose a great fool. Even the Enemy could learn, and he had predicted their fast response to the third attack. Predicted, indeed, that the response would be so fast it could be turned against the forces of Bastion.

  Though it would do him no good, the Warlord looked to a globe that was intended to connect to the invading army. He had impressed upon the sorcerers he'd sent there to establish contact as quickly as possible. He did not yet trust very many of his field commanders enough to put matters entirely in their hands for long. If his warriors could take hold of the northernmost reaches of the valley, supplies and reinforcements could be sent to them while other forces pressured the valley from the south or east. It would open up a battle on multiple fronts for the enemy, who – if they stayed true to form – would cut their losses and run.

  The Warlord had little to keep him occupied currently. Without the globe connection he could neither receive reports nor send orders to the battle. He was studying maps of the contested area, but in truth he had had them committed to memory for days now. Growing restless, he turned to the generals.

  "I will be observing our departing troops. Send for me if there are any developments."

  Not even waiting for the acknowledgment that followed, Traigan stepped out from the pavilion.

  The camp was well lit, both by torch and various bonfires that were used as gathering points and for preparing food. The hellish, sputtering gateways of the Firewalking spell added yet more flickering light.

  Thousands of warriors were waiting for their moment to step through the fire, their ranks stretching beyond the light and back into the darkness. Their chiefs led them, group by group, through the gateways and into the attack. Those who had yet to enter shouted warcries to keep their blood hot.

  Some chanted war-rhymes and guttural challenges in a language that was yet strange to Traigan's ears. Pyre had lately made contact with a new people, hulking brutes who roamed the barren wastes to the city's east. Their allegiance had been easy to gain – no man could refuse a Demon – and if he did, his successor certainly would not.

&nbs
p; Suddenly the ambient light dimmed somewhat. The din around him likewise lessened as men turned to look to the far south of the camp, where sorcerers were shouting and gesticulating wildly to each other. Traigan was amongst them in an instant, demanding to know that had happened.

  "This cretin has failed us, Warlord! He could not maintain the spell."

  The 'cretin' in question was nearly frothing at the mouth in rage – and pain, it seemed. He cradled his head in one hand, looking at the Warlord from one eye. "Warlord, he lies. I did not fail – the spell was attacked."

  The first sorcerer was about to continue upbraiding the man, which Traigan could not afford. "Silence!" he demanded. Turning again to the ailing magician, he said in a surprisingly soft voice. "Attacked? The enemy has found a way to destroy Firewalking?"

  "It must be so, Warlord. I could feel a wizard at work on the other side. I attempted to keep it stable, but... but I could not."

  "Damn," Traigan said. "This was earlier than I hoped."

  He glanced to the other areas. The sorcerers there seemed to be doing fine. Perhaps a single wizard had figured something out, but the disaster did not seem to be widespread. As he watched, one of the groups, a much smaller force targeting the southernmost edge of the assault, finished dashing into the fire. Their sorcerers soon followed. Immediately afterward, the gateway seemed to swell, and the churning of the flames shifted ever so slightly.

  Traigan turned back. "You're sure it was the enemy?" he asked of the sorcerer again. This time, the man only nodded, his eyes a fountain of pain.

  "Both of you start telling the rest of the army to step up the pace. We need to get the rest of the soldiers through before this wizard can share his secret. He won't be - "

  There was a titanic explosion then, and the Warlord – along with all those nearby – were dashed to the ground, their ears ringing. Traigan was on his feet again in a heartbeat, looking to the source. Where only moments before he had watched sorcerers step through a gate, now there was a smoldering crater in the ground. Those nearest the blast were down and screaming, burns covering most of their bodies. Fire burned amongst clothing and what little vegetation had managed to survive the camp's daily business.

  Traigan was shouting orders already. "Close the gates! Cease the attack! Stop the spells, stop them now!"

  The first sorcerer he'd spoken to was rising to his feet, eyes wide with confusion. "My lord, we... we don't know if that can be done!"

  The Warlord struck the man. "Find a way! Now!"

  ***

  There was a loud knock on the door. Balkan did not immediately rise to answer it – having, truly, not registered it. The stylus, held firmly in his left hand, gouged precise lines in the silver before him. Once he finished work on the current symbol, he heard the knocking. He laid the stylus upon the table and rose to answer the door.

  Darius waited outside, along with Jotan. Each had grins on their faces – Darius's toothy and predatory, Jotan's more reserved.

  "Threeforts?' Balkan inquired on a hunch.

  "A resounding victory." Darius answered.

  A grin to match the others grew on Balkan's face. "Come in! Tell me what you know."

  Balkan sat back in the chair, and Darius pulled over the only other chair in the room. Jotan contented himself with leaning against the wall near the window. They shared the most recent reports from the battle; the incredible success of the counterspell had made the enemy cut short their attempts. Even so, the enemy dead numbered in the thousands with many fallen sorcerers besides. Bastion's casualties were much lower, and only two of them were wizards.

  "One yet lives. A fellow by the name of Harr was with a group that cut their way to the center of the most dangerous incursion," Jotan said. "Another of the wizards with them is a good friend of mine. I spoke with him personally by globe – he says Harr was enacting a counterspell on a portal that neared completion. Soon after it ended, Harr cried out and collapsed. There's more to that story, no doubt, but it will have to wait until he wakes."

  "Has an Angel seen to him?"

  "No. Apparently even the far north of Threeforts valley is too near the fighting for them to show right now. Harr is not in immediate danger, I'm told."

  "Time will tell."

  "There are still warriors prowling about the hills, but they pose little danger. They are being hunted down as we speak. Harr and his group did a great thing – if they hadn't reached the transport spells at the heart of that attack, we would still have a battle being fought."

  As Darius finished speaking, Jotan changed the subject, pointing to the objects upon the table.

  "I give up. What are those?"

  Balkan chuckled and picked up the item he had been working on. It was a silver cylinder, half again as long as a man's hand and slightly wider than a sword handle. It was covered with some of Balkan's Angelic runes. It had three mates on the table, each covered with more of the arcane symbols in varying patterns. No two were carved alike.

  "I have been attempted to catch and store magical power. I couldn't begin to tell you how the enemy does it – in truth, I suspect it will use methods that we could not bear to employ. As the saying goes though; there is more than one road to the river. The symbols I've been working on have vast potential, but I don't yet understand much of their actual workings... and so, I'm left more or less with long and tedious guesswork."

  "How do you know which symbols to start with, even?" inquired Jotan.

  "Observe." Balkan flicked a hand towards the cylinder, gathering power into the area around it. When he ceased his efforts and the power dissipated, there remained, for a few moments, a buzz of energy around the metal. It was very faint, but discernible.

  "I noticed the effect early in my experiments with this symbol here," said Balkan, indicating one rune within the patterns. "I thought little of it at the time because the effect only occurred when the rune was set to metal. It was iron, at first. Other materials produce widely different effects. It is still guesswork, as I said. Blind experimentation."

  "It is still something. You are a marvel, Balkan. If not for Maggie and Kaylie, I'd recommend you be confined to this room for good."

  "If not for them, I'd happily oblige. Speaking of Kaylie, she has been telling me there is a young boy who brags of having played at War with a wizard. Know anything about it?"

  "Sounds like a silly boast to me," Darius said seriously. Balkan almost believed him.

  "The boy claims he won."

  "Lies!”

  Darius's mock indignation drove the other men to gales of laughter. Shortly after, Jotan excused himself.

  “It is late, and Darius has been merciless with our morning excursions. I must rest.”

  When he had gone, Darius turned back to his friend.

  “Your progress is astounding. I cannot imagine the things we'll be capable of when we understand these symbols more thoroughly.”

  Balkan nodded as he rubbed tiredly at his temples. “I agree. I have been focusing on them so much lately I'm starting to see them in my sleep. Most of them yield their secrets reluctantly... but there are a couple...”

  Balkan picked up a stone tile, also bearing one of the runes.

  “A couple,” he continued. “Have more obvious meaning. Observe.”

  He let a scintilla of power flow into the rune, and the effects were immediate. The stone began to crumble around the periphery of the symbol itself, disintegrating into dust even as Darius watched. It progressed rapidly, even with the tiny amount of power Balkan had given it. Before long, the entire tile had been consumed, leaving a few motes of dust upon the desk. The symbol itself was the last to crumble, holding its form until the rest of the power had been consumed, and then finally dissolving itself.

  “Heaven defend us,” Darius breathed.

  “I give the runes names, tied to their meanings and effects,” Balkan said. “Fire, Motion, and such. This one is obviously Destruction, pure and undiluted. I have experimented with it only a little, th
us far. Observe the kind of damage it did with so little power.”

  Darius nodded. “All the more reason to gain a greater understanding of it.”

  Balkan smiled. “Now you sound like me.”

  “Well, allow me to sound like myself again,” Darius said. “I will be leaving the city soon.”

  Balkan's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Your captains are all trained?”

  “There are still men to be gathered for their commands. For my part, I have told them everything I can.”

  “Hmph. You've told them – but have they learned it?”

  Darius cocked his head in confusion at the statement, and Balkan continued.

  “Learning is a matter of repetition. A good teacher will ensure that his students undergo that repetition. You say you've told them what they need to know – good. Tell them again. And again.”

  “Nonsense. They are not acolytes.”

  “Even worse. They'll think as you do – that they can get it all from one telling. Darius, they may not have your intuition, nor your – shall we say, aggressive instincts? It will not come so naturally to them as it did with you. Keep working with them.”

  Darius looked unhappy, and Balkan once again laughed at him. “Stop sulking. You should at least wait until their men are all gathered. Then you can all run to the border together. You wouldn't want them thinking you've abandoned them here, would you?”

  Darius sighed. “Balkan, are you ever wrong?”

  “Not when Maggie is out of the room, my friend.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Warlord returned to Pyre in a towering rage. Their most potent advantage had been rendered nearly impotent. The master stroke of Traigan's campaign – the swallowing of the entire enemy border defense in one go – had crumbled with the disaster at Threeforts, and there was real danger to the Shambles as well.

  A mere week after the battle, word had come through from his spy within Bastion. It had been announced that Darius, that ever-troublesome wizard, had been primarily responsible for the development of their counterspell. It had been Darius who so mauled the northern flank during the battle for the Shambles. No doubt it was he who had killed Padraig and Kray as well.