by James Duvall
Embers fell past Morgen like soft burning snow, warming the ever-present night of the Cold. It was a quiet march, this time uninterrupted, as she and the remaining Shankari Guard made their way to the fortress at the city's heart. The gate lay in shambles. Thin wisps of ashes blew in waves across the barren earth, dry and cracked where there once had been blankets of soft grass. All about the courtyard, otherworldly flames licked at the night sky from smoldering craters among the sea of dead. It was the unpredictable nature of the Cold to allow such fires to burn almost indefinitely.
Morgen kicked dirt across one of the flames, only to watch the fires consume it and roar back to life. In the center of the fortress stood Sundor Tower. As they looked on, silver light flickered and burst from the windows.
“Silver lights in the keep. We'll find our Keeper there,” Vorsen said. He waved his men forward. The guardsmen fanned out in formation, weapons at ready.
The forces of the Cold had other plans for the beleaguered tower's reinforcements. A winged creature, bigger than any dragon Morgen had ever seen, swooped down from the tower and landed before her, blocking the way.
I am with you.
Morgen looked up. The words came from everywhere and nowhere, a firm declaration sounding within her mind alone. Silver dragon's paws appeared on either side of her, shimmering and transparent as a still pond. Looking up, Morgen found the Keeper of Light looking down at her, zeal shining through her eyes like two lighthouse flames perched atop her sleek royal muzzle. Sacrys lifted her head and looked out across the battlefield where the Forgemaster's twisted creation roared and spewed fire and molten stone.
The silver dragon reached out and dragged her claws through the smoldering soil. Immediately Morgen felt a new strength flowing through her. Her weapon came to life in her hands. Unbidden, the flames turned bright white, roaring from both ends. Holy power thrummed within the staff. Silver lightning crawled along the length.
The demon took a deep breath and spewed forth a river of fire and brimstone. Morgen's shield snapped to life an instant before a deluge of fire and hot wind poured over her. When the fire ebbed, Morgen found herself unharmed, standing beneath the aegis of Sacrys's shimmering wings, curled about her. As she raised her shield in defense, Sacrys raised her wings and, despite all expectations, Morgen found herself unharmed. The demon seemed more surprised than she, drawing its head back and furrowing its brow at the still-living mage. Seizing the moment, Morgen sent a wrathful fireball hurtling toward its throat. Behind her, Sacrys slashed at the air and the spell blossomed into a flower of searing white fire against the demon's chest.
Vorsen's men lashed out in unison, blades finding their mark on the demon's thick hide, scoring it with bloody-red gashes.
“Assist me!” the demon roared. The eternal night lit up with red burning eyes. Bat-like wings fluttered through the air as the gargoyles swarmed down the walls, pouring off Sundor Tower in such numbers as to cloak it in black. Vorsen and his men braced themselves, weapons at-ready to face the new threat. The gargoyles sprang nimbly about Sundor's defenders, leathery wings assisting each leap. One was impaled quickly on a Shankari spear, but the others flashed to stone in an instant, making what would have been a fatal blow glance off a marbled hide. Vorsen called an order. The Shankari dropped back into a tighter cluster, lest the gargoyles drop down among them.
Vorsen's spearmen worked as a team, striking out in unison to force all of the gargoyles to stone at once, giving the halberdiers opportunity to hammer away at the fixed monsters without fear of counter attack. They began to back in a slow circle, forcing the gargoyles to come to them. One by one they were torn from the sky and broken with the grim efficiency of the Fendian war machine.
Morgen faced the demon alone with the Keeper of Light at her back.
“Tremble and despair,” the demon bellowed. Its wings bobbed as it chortled, searching the field for its foe. “This is the best Fendiss has to offer? A lone mage?”
“I need only one,” Sacrys answered, but the demon could not hear.
Fireballs thundered from Morgen's staff like cannon fire, shedding rivers of embers in their wake like a thousand burning threads. Every spell Morgen fired the Keeper slashed with her claws. Every blow landed with earth-shattering force well beyond mortal means. The sound bounced off the walls and rumbled back across the battlefield over and over like rolling thunder. The demon shuddered under the barrage of silvery comets, losing ground as it tried to shrug off the blows. It countered as best it could, but when Morgen raised her shield, Sacrys would curl her wing over them and the shield would not break. Through a gap in the smoke, Morgen could see fear in the demon's eyes.
Morgen twirled her staff, weaving an enchantment. The demon took a deep breath and sprayed her with a torrent of fire and molten stone. Morgen closed her eyes against the brightness, beads of sweat popping out across her face. The demon roared, magma surging up against the unyielding shield. Burning rocks crashed all around, slamming into the shield with deafening bursts. For an instant the demon had brought to bear all of its hatred and rage and power and poured it into a single soul. For a moment Morgen thought she might've been vaporized. She couldn't feel anything, couldn't see anything, but she could hear something. A single voice. It was Sacrys. She was praying.
Morgen felt a tingle of sensation in her fingers. The staff. She spun it one last time, then with all that she had left in her, launched her spell at the demon.
Light flashed across the battlefield and for a few brief seconds night became as day. There Sacrys stood among the carnage, wreathed in white fire, visible to all. For a moment, time itself seemed to hesitate as every skirmish came to a sudden halt. All eyes turned to the Keeper of Light. The silver dragon's voice carried over the din, booming as though it came from everywhere within the infinite void.
“Here I stand in defiance of evil, that no darkness shall prosper before these shining eyes!”
“Keeper!” the demon cried out, fearful and trembling. Sacrys lashed out with her claws and the demon was struck down, sundered in twain by a blade of glorious silver light. Embers coughed from the creature's bloodless wound. It wailed pitifully as it slumped to the pock-marked ground in final defeat. Sacrys lifted her head to the starless sky and roared in triumph. The sky opened up and silvery comets rained down like falling stars, erupting in white hot bursts as they crashed through the enemy ranks, leaving smoldering craters in their wake.
When the smoke cleared, only Morgen and the Shankari stood in the presence of the Keeper of Light. Not one among them had fallen. Cheers of triumph filled the courtyard as Sundor Tower emptied of its defenders, all drawn to the Keeper's presence.
“Through your faith I am revealed to the enemy and you have found victory!” declared the Keeper of Light.
Another great cheer roared through the crowd. Sacrys turned toward the gate and looked down the hillside at the sprawling city below. Thousands of little orbs lit up the darkened streets like fireflies, each one a living soul. “Many have survived the assault. Go into the streets, proclaim your victory and gather the survivors in the fortress. No more shall die tonight!”
Once the courtyard had emptied of all but Sacrys and Morgen, Sacrys lowered her head to look the mage in the eye.
“Build your portal,” the silver dragon said. “You will find sanctuary in Andrlossen for a time. Go there and tell all that will listen what has transpired here. All Ryvarra must prepare for the evil that comes, and it shall come soon. Behold, two sorrows are yet passed and a third comes quickly.”
Morgen nodded slowly, paying rapt attention to the Keeper's proclamation. “I will do whatever you ask of me, Keeper.”
“I know that you will,” Sacrys said, her voice warm and gentle. “Your faith will serve you well, lamplighter.”
Chapter 23
The Foundry
Fort Lockworth, Arcamyn
Raw Golem Heartstone must be alchemically processed before it can be infused with the proper series of spells to create a functio
ning golem. It is not recommended that any attempt be made to cut the raw Heartstone. This is due to Tartend's Formula of Golem Fading which shows a direct correlation between the size of a golem's heartstone and the duration in which it continues to function without sign of fading.
~Excerpt from the Cursed Crystals
It was raining when Syrrus arrived at the broken walls of Fort Lockworth. It had never been finished. Eyes less familiar with the marks of war might have made the mistake of assuming that all of the apparent damage was from a battalion of golems crashing through the walls, but Syrrus could tell the difference between walls that were broken and walls that were only half built. The outer walls had certainly been breached by a force not unlike an avalanche crashing down the side of a mountain. The rain had washed much of the dust away, but the bigger pieces of rubble and broken rock littered the ground around the crumbling foundations.
Large slabs of onyx, limestone, shale, and granite testified to the strength of the human resistance. Stone given life, with life no more. Many of the slabs now bore the names of men, wrested into place at the head of freshly turned soil. Syrrus had not realized she had left the road until she saw the names. She looked back to see where she had made her mistake but found there was no error. The road came to its end in a field of gravestones, the dead buried where the golem fragments had already fallen. For the soldiers it meant only one thing: they had no intention to return. This place was cursed ground, and they would not forget the place where so many of them had died.
In quiet solemnity Syrrus traversed the graveyard, mud staining her paws. There was nothing for her to say as she passed among the dead. No sense in stopping, no sense in looking back. She picked her way carefully among the markers, eyes on the ruined fort ahead. She had almost reached the entrance when she found a marker that made a pain shoot through her heart like a blade of ice. Like the others it stood at the head of a freshly dug grave, but it bore no name. Whoever he was, he was gone. Now he was in Ilsador's Kingdom, perhaps taking solace in his victory, perhaps finding peace in reunion with the righteous dead. The field of stone behind her testified to the number that had fallen. Whoever he was, he had not entered glory alone. In the end, he had found peace. But someone, somewhere, had a candle lit each night for him, and for them Syrrus found tears in her eyes. It was for the living to grieve.
Syrrus stood there for a long while, muddy water pooling around her paws. Eventually she turned away, respectfully rounding the edge of the grave. Before her was the crushed outer wall. The archway over the gate had collapsed, leaving the gate deformed and pinned beneath the rubble. Not much further along the perimeter the wall had been completely destroyed, only a heap of uneven, broken stone filled the gap. This was where the golems had broken through. The gap was wide enough for two or three golems to enter at a time. Syrrus imaged that the first gap had only been wide enough for one to clamber through, but each subsequent passing would've widened the breach until it reached its present status.
Syrrus climbed carefully over the heap of rain-slicked rock and into the empty courtyard. There was far fewer signs of destroyed golems there. Syrrus recognized the shimmering black chunks of an onyxian in the farthest corner. The rainfall had polished them to a glittering shine. They would have seemed beautiful if not for the signs of death all around them. Hewn earth and broken stone.
Near the barracks was what looked like it might've been a gray shambler or stone stomper. Unlike the keep and the walls, the barracks was not designed to withstand golem attacks and likely collapsed beneath the first well-placed blow. The building had been crushed beyond recognition, were it not for the many broken beds among the debris. Syrrus hoped no one had been caught inside when the golems had reached it.
Syrrus did not dwell long in the courtyard. She did not know if anyone had taken up residence in the abandoned buildings; the courtyard was a large open area where she could be easily spotted. The keep was her primary goal. There would be maps there, perhaps correspondence.
The halls were dark but dry, giving Syrrus an opportunity to shake the water from her fur and wring it from her clothes. At one point there had been steps leading up to the second level, but a boulder had been heaved through the wall, carrying away several steps and a portion of the wall large enough to bring down part of the floor above.
The armory looked like a marketplace after harvest festival, debris strewn across the well-trod ground and only baskets of rubbish and empty crates left behind. Weapons, broken or overlooked, had been abandoned. In their haste to depart, someone had dropped a crate of biscuit rations. Most of them had been soiled by the rain but Syrrus was able to liberate enough to augment a few of her meals. She ate one as she rummaged through the quartermaster's notes. She found an entry for Stonebreaker arrows. The fort had been well stocked in that regard. Probably a contributing factor to the number of destroyed golems at the gates. They were all gone, used or removed when the soldiers had left.
There were plenty of other weapons that had been left behind: swords and spears mostly. Things that did little good against golems. Syrrus found it odd that they had not been plundered. The soldiers must not have considered them worth the effort. The wounded and the food stores had been top priority. Not far to the south was the river that marked the border between Arcamyn and Banida. Ostensibly the fort's purpose was to prevent Banidan incursions. Banida was not so much a kingdom as a collection of loosely associated barbarian tribes. In a way they were like Calderr, Syrrus felt. They did not eschew magic in the same way Calderr did, but neither did they advance it. They had no mages, only soothsayers and those that read dreams and brewers of strange concoctions meant to give the bravest of warriors visions or powers taken from the blood of animals. The golems had proven an effective barrier. There had been no such incursions in recent history. That was, of course, if the golems proved not to have come from Banida.
“Hmmph...” Syrrus grumbled. The idea that Banida's shamans and soothsayers had mastered golems after the brightest mages of both Arcamyn and Fendiss had raised a white flag defied all reason and rankled her sensibilities. The gaping wound in the wall accused her with its presence. The golem attack was an aberration from the normal, aimless behavior. According to the rumors coming out of Tabin the golems had actually formed ranks, focusing their attacks on a particular portion of the wall, then filed through and swarmed over the encampment. Syrrus never would have believed these rumors were it not for Grimlohr's own account of Talya's abduction and the unsettling circumstances of her retrieval.
Satisfied that there was nothing left for her in the armory, Syrrus climbed up the heap of rubble at the base of the broken stairs. She tapped the steps above with the butt of her staff, half expecting them to tumble down. It would have been a formidable obstacle for a human, but a quick leap and some scrabbling of claws on the abused stones brought Syrrus safely onto the landing above. The rest of the structure proved sturdy despite the crumbling exterior, admitting Syrrus into the upper keep.
Dim light fell on Syrrus as she reached the zenith, emerging into a half-finished room. There was a map of southern Arcamyn hanging on the wall and a large oak table at the center. The ceiling provided shelter from the rain and Syrrus could see out over the graveyard and on toward the forest south of Tabin. In a few places the trees had been knocked down, bowled over by golems pursuing soldiers into the woods.
Only from her new vantage point could Syrrus truly understand the devastation. The wall had been torn down in many places and the fortress was all but crumbling around her. It was as though Ilsador's hand had reached down and crushed the outpost. As she surveyed the field of broken rocks, Syrrus wondered where the heartstones had all gone. By her estimation the ground should be practically glittering ruby with golemheart. There were none, however. Perhaps the soldiers had taken them. So many heartstones would have been a fortune to whomever had found them, but the cost had been many, many lives. The lives of their brothers in arms. Someone must have felt the riches were worth
the sense of guilt. Or perhaps they were not like her, and simply felt it pragmatic to not leave a fortune behind after the cost of blood had already been paid.
Syrrus had never considered herself a pragmatic woman. If she had been, she might have never left the university. By now she would have had a high rank in the Frostwind Circle, a husband perhaps. Children, even. Someone else could be traipsing through the mud and muck of the world, tracking down monsters at the bidding of a noble dragon. That was another life, though. To someone else she was that someone else. There was no one else. She had heard this call and answered it.
“There's nothing here but ghosts,” Syrrus said quietly, her voice alone in the empty halls. She made her way back into the keep, hopping down from the broken stairs and retrieving another biscuit to fill her hungry belly. She wanted to be dry more than fed, but one was easier than the other. She started a small fire in what had become an exterior hallway, the awning of the flood above providing cover from the rain. She could see out into the courtyard here, and the walls would keep her fire from being seen from the distance. The smoke rose up through a hole in the floor, presumably filling the second level with smoke, but there was no one up there to complain.
Soon Syrrus had her clothes drying on a stick and a small pot of stew simmering over the flames. She didn't bother with the tent, instead just spreading out her blanket to lie on and read for a while as she waited for her dinner to cook and her clothes to dry out. The stone corridor kept the wind out and the fire kept her warm.
Her bag was largely waterproof, but she kept her papers and a book or two tightly concealed from the elements in an oilcloth bound tight with twine. It did the job, usually. Certain that the stew would be a while longer, she unbound her journal and entered the date and place. She described in vivid detail the nature of Fort Lockworth and the damage done to its walls. There was a saying back home about a vagabond's chances in the planes of ash. The Arcamynian garrison had worse odds when the golems had brought their destruction, like an avalanche brought to life and given only malice for a heart. She could only imagine what the sound of their approach must have been like.