by K. J. Coble
Sorcery raged from the ridge top, a blizzard of ice shards this time, a thousand frigid knives clattering against Danelle’s aura. The attacking wizard’s strength remained undimmed, but Jayce was getting a taste for his method now. This is not all you, is it, my friend? You are amplified, somehow.
With quick phrases of the arcane, Jayce cupped his hands together, brought a single flame into being between his palms and blew on it. The flame blowtorched forth into his foe’s artificial storm and the ice blades splashed away into steam. Again, Jayce felt the other’s shriek of frustration reverberate through the cosmos. The remainder of the blizzard fell away and for a moment it both rained and hailed on the combatants below.
The crisis passed, Jayce considered an astral duel, casting his soul out into the energetic planes to engage the wizard directly, one-on-one where it would be mastery against mastery. But he knew that might very well be the other’s ploy, to draw him out. Were Jayce to meet a force he could not best and be lost, Danelle would be left alone to shield the villagers.
The trap door to the tower top flipped open and Illah emerged, still pale-faced and wasted but with fire in her eyes. Arlen Fletcher followed her up. Jayce exchanged a nod with the Yntuil before turning to the Speaker of the village.
“Our bag of tricks is holding them,” Fletcher said, his voice high with the shakiness of a man teetering at panic’s edge.
“For the moment,” Jayce replied. He took a long breath, felt the weariness he’d ignored up until now come slamming down upon him like a giant, suffocating hand. “But they’ll not give up, this time. I...don’t know if we can hold the wall, much longer. We may want to get everyone inside the tower.” And say farewell to the last of our options, he thought to himself. It becomes mathematical after that...just a matter of time. He suddenly couldn’t look at the other man anymore. He did not fear so much for himself. But all these people...
Fletcher let out a chuckle that sounded more like madness and patted Jayce’s arm. “Don’t give up just yet, wizard! Look to the river.”
“What?” Jayce turned and strode to the east side of the tower. Leaning out over the battlements, he beheld an oared river boat cutting across moonlit waters to the village piers. Straining his eyes, Jayce found himself recognizing the colors of Eredynn fluttering over the ship’s aft deck, and beneath those a tattered pendant emblazoned with a leering imp.
“Vohl Rhenn.” Jayce’s lips peeled back from his teeth. He could have sagged to his knees for a moment. “That heroic fool, what is he doing?”
“Looks like they’re docking,” Illah said at Jayce’s side.
“If we can just hold ‘em back for a little while longer,” Fletcher said from Jayce’s other side, “we can get everyone aboard. I know we can!”
Jayce looked to the villagers’ weak left flank, down by the riverside, by the piers. A thin line, mostly the youngest and oldest, waited there as the Skinners’ attack began to shift their way. Jayce shook off fatigue, fired to new life by the sudden appearance of his old friend. “We have to shore up that flank,” he said, pointing to the threatened position. “And we have to keep up a convincing illusion of resistance to the front, at least long enough to get the people boarding.”
“I will go,” Illah said with a hint of fatalism in her voice as she gripped her sword.
“No,” Jayce snapped. “You will stay with Danelle. She will provide much of our illusion and she will need someone to protect her, should some of the Skinners get too close. Fletcher, you go down and greet our saviors and direct them and any men you can spare to holding the left.”
Fletcher nodded and rushed for the trap door.
Jayce led Illah to Danelle’s side. He touched his apprentice’s arm, roused her from her trance. “My dear, I want you to go down with Illah. She will be your shield. When you reach the ground, I need you to throw something...convincing in the barbarians’ path.”
Danelle shook off the last aftereffects of her prolonged spell-work. “‘Convincing’? Another wall of fire?”
“Nothing so potent,” Jayce said. “A phantasm. Ymgool’s Balefires will suffice, I think. Are you up to it?”
“I am.” She frowned. “What’s happening?”
“We’re getting out of here.”
“What of the tower?”
Jayce grinned. “Fear not. I didn’t build this structure of merely stone. It will fall to no barbarians or their token wizard. But nor will it be of any use to anyone else, shortly.”
She grabbed his arm, a hint of fear coming into her eyes for the first time. “And you?”
“I’ll not be falling anytime soon, either,” he replied with a reassuring pat. “Now go.”
Illah led the young wizard away.
Alone on the tower top, Jayce knelt and put his hands to the stones, becoming momentarily one with the building he’d strengthened not just with solid construction, but with blood, soul, and sorcery. He murmured words he’d kept in reserve, hoping against hope not to have to use. The stones thrummed beneath him with power, rivulets of energy coursing into cracks and mortar and runes etched painstakingly over years of habitation. A distant part of him recalled with humor the uneasy looks the villagers had cast his way as he’d wandered the perimeter of his tower, sometimes working atop scaffolds, murmuring and chiseling strange characters with stranger tools.
His foe returned to torment him, the enemy wizard’s spell-fires roaring out of the sky. But rather than savage Jayce, they were drawn to the tower itself, slamming into the structure, causing its narrow cylinder to shudder as otherworldly flames were absorbed in glimmering lines that traced the spaces between bricks until they faded.
Jayce finished the incantation and headed for the trap door. It would hold now, until he returned or a wizard of greater power figured a way to crack his wards. He ducked through the door and flew down the rungs of the ladder, hitting the floor of the corridor below at a run.
There wouldn’t be any dallying for him now. The tower would be impervious to all without shortly, but would also lock those within into a cold, timeless stasis.
And Jayce Zerron didn’t have time for that.
THE River Imp reached the piers and one of the injured crew tossed a loop of line over the nearest support. At the lad’s side, Muddle poled the depth and turned to nod to Vohl—the shallow-drafted craft’s keel was not dragging. The half-breed drew in the pole and yanked his battleaxe from where he’d planted it in the wood of the gunwale.
Crouched at Vohl’s hip, Dodso clenched the carpentry hammer close to his chest, murmuring, “You know, Vohl—” he cackled in brittle humor “—I...I think I changed my mind.”
The Imp thudded as its bow touched the pier. Vohl vaulted over the gunwale and landed on the dock. Turning to Tev and the waiting crew, he drew his sword, held it high and shouted, “Ten cisterces to the first one ashore!”
The crew erupted after him as he spun and sprinted down the pier. He reached the gritty beach ahead of even the long-striding Muddle, a disingenuous part of him glad to not have to empty his coffers further on account of his boast. Above, curtains of flame cast the tower and the hilltop upon which it sat in hard, dark lines tossing with the figures of embattled men.
A knot of villagers was rushing down to the docks, the wiry man in the lead holding up a sword to slow them to a halt before the new arrivals. He met Vohl’s eyes as the crew gathered behind him and called out, “You’re Rhenn? Vohl Rhenn?”
“Yeah,” Vohl answered, glancing once at Muddle. “Do I know you, friend?”
“Arlen Fletcher,” the villager replied, holding out his hand, which Vohl accepted cautiously. “I’m Speaker of Edon Village.”
“Where’s Jayce Zerron?”
Unearthly fire slammed into the tower above, the structure absorbing the hit, strange flames cascading down its length and dissipating like a campfire log unable to hold a light. The men hunched low, save Muddle who looked up at the blast in momentary fascination.
“The wizard
’s up there,” Fletcher replied, gesturing at the tower, “giving the bastards hell! He sent me down to greet you and tell you we need any you can spare on the left. The barbarians are about to break through there!”
“It’s the Skinners?” Vohl asked.
Fletcher nodded, brows knitting in momentary confusion. “Yes.”
“We met a few of them south of here.” Vohl turned to Muddle and Dodso. “You all know what to do.”
“Where are you going?” Dodso asked.
“I’m going to find Jayce,” Vohl answered. He winked at the gnome. “I’ll be along. Just keep them off my back.”
Muddle clapped Dodso on the head and led Tev and the others to the left with a bark, battleaxe held high in one hand. Fletcher nodded for his own group to follow them and turned to lead Vohl uphill to the tower.
Cries and the clang of steel enveloped them as they neared the tower entrance. Wounded were being dragged into the center of villagers’ shrinking perimeter and leaned against the tower walls to be tended to by women and children. Bodies crowded close, stinking of days suffered out in the elements and fear. Vohl began to worry at his ship’s ability to take them all aboard.
A wall of purplish fire exploded along the boundaries of the villagers’ line. Vohl flinched at the pyrotechnics, fighting down an instinctive loathing of sorcery. Beyond the Edonites’ position, barbarian throats went shrill with terror.
A waif-like figure knelt near the door to the tower, palms upraised as a small young woman chanted. Vohl’s eyes widened with recognition. It can’t be...it’s hardly been a year! He stepped towards Danelle, a greeting ready.
The tip of a blade appeared at his throat and Vohl recoiled, found him self looking into almond-shaped eyes of chilliest jade. An auburn-haired apparition of coiled, lethal beauty edged the point of the saber close, kissing Vohl’s tensed throat with the metallic promise of death.
“Illah—” Fletcher began to say.
“Whoa, missy!” Vohl managed a hint of smile. “We’re all friends here.”
“I don’t know you,” said the woman—elf, Vohl realized as he noted pointed ears. “Take another step towards her and you die.”
“Illah, don’t,” Fletcher said, stepping to one side.
“I see your way with ladies hasn’t lost its appeal,” a familiar voice half-chortled.
Jayce Zerron stepped to the elf’s side, putting a hand gently to her tensed forearm and lowering her blade. She glanced at him, the murder leaving her eyes behind a ripple of embarrassment that was lost just as quickly behind cool composure.
“Just who is rescuing whom here?” Vohl asked, regaining some of his bravado and resisting the urge to rub his neck.
Jayce grinned, teeth brilliant against his dusky features. “Well, it is good to be seeing you again, you old pirate.” He turned the smile on the elf maiden. “It wouldn’t do to be threatening the architect of our escape, my dear.”
“I didn’t know—” she started with rekindled anger.
“No harm done.” Vohl flicked his eyebrows at her. “In fact, you can threaten me anytime!”
The elf scowled and looked away.
The crash of weapons and cries of fighting drew the impromptu meeting’s attention downhill to the riverside flank. Muddle’s battle cry was hard to mistake, bawling over the din.
“No time for further pleasantries!” Jayce said, suddenly all business. “Vohl, we need the line held until all the dependants are loaded on your ship. Can it hold them?”
“It will,” Vohl replied, praying he wouldn’t be made a liar.
“Fletcher,” Jayce said, turning to the Speaker, “get your people evacuating. I’ll take charge here.”
“What can I do?” the elf maiden asked.
“Go with him.” Jayce nodded at Vohl. “Hold that riverbank route. If they break through there, it’s all lost.”
Muddle’s roar split the night again and Vohl thought he heard Dodso’s shrill cry. Vohl waved Illah after him. “Come on, missy.”
“It’s Illah,” she replied coldly, falling in alongside him as he dashed downhill.
Illah, Vohl turned the name over in his mind, mystified despite the fact he might very well be dead in moments. She moved with a grace disrupted only by a slight limp as she glided alongside him, saber gleaming in her fist.
Oh, yes...threaten me any time...
“IT’S NOT REAL!” LONADIEL screamed as purple flame aglitter with cyan flecks washed over him and the barbarians staggering, at last, to the wall. “Press on! It is not real!”
His words went unheard, huge Skinner warriors, the best-armed veterans clustered about the chieftains, batting at the witch-fires as they spattered across armor and cloaks. The booby traps and magical serpents had been bad enough. One of the Skinner elders flopped to the ground, rolling over as the purple flames enveloped him and squalling at his subordinates to put them out. His thrashings knocked a barbarian rushing to his aid backwards, impaling the man on one of the villagers’ crude stakes. A look of shock lingered in his eyes until death glazed them over.
Lonadiel grabbed the arm of Skinner careening past him, tried to wrench the brute back to the fore. The barbarian whirled on him, mania lighting his gaze as he raised his sword to strike at something, anything he could fight back against. Lonadiel duck under the swing and leapt back to evade a follow-up stroke whose wild course sent the blade crunching into the spine of another Skinner.
Not this way, Lonadiel thought, dodging another swing and slashing across the barbarian’s chest, bursting him open in a spray of foulness like ruptured carrion. The Skinner dropped to his knees and fell face-first into the dirt with a dying gurgle. Some of his comrades froze, even the magic flames forgotten behind shock and outrage.
“It’s just wizard’s glamour!” Lonadiel barked at them, holding up a hand ablaze with the false fire and waving it. “Ignore it! Attack! Attack, you fools!”
Lonadiel spun and dived through the pseudo-flames. He vaulted to the top of the wall and cast about for some sign of Illah. She is near. She must be. But he didn’t0 even see defenders, saw only foot-churned mud, bodies, abandoned weapons, emptied makeshift shelters, and two cloaked figures by the entrance to the tower.
He stepped down from the wall and advanced cautiously on the pair, realizing from their garb that they must be sorcerers. Skinners emerged from the blaze at his flanks, purplish glare outlining them like demons with flame-lit eyes. A growl spread through them.
One of the wizards nudged the second one’s shoulder, a girl on her knees, face creased in concentration. The first’s touch roused the girl. Her eyes snapped open and her features pinched in horror, like a child’s, awakening to find the nightmare she has dreamt still lives in her reality. The older wizard, a man bearing an uneasy resemblance to Ango Morug, grabbed her by the shoulder and thrust her behind him, one hand up.
Careful. Lonadiel slowed his approach, kept the angle of his enchantment-inscribed saber before him. The older wizard’s gaze hardened as it met Lonadiel’s, some sort of recognition flaring in his eyes, warmer silver counterparts to Morug’s. A cornered animal fights hardest.
“You’re going to die, anyway,” Lonadiel said. “Tell me what happened to elf girl and I will make certain it’s a clean death.”
The wizard waved the girl behind him off and she turned and fled into the smoke. The ebony-skinned man smiled. “Give your master my regards. It has been an interesting contest.”
The wizard’s upraised hand twitched once and spewed lightning.
Lonadiel knelt with head down to save his eyes from the glare, his saber wreathed in snarling forks of energy. The wizard-storm gouged the ground around him, kicking up jets of cooked dirt and splinters of shattered wall that bit into Lonadiel’s unarmored skin. He groaned as muscles strained against the pressure of the attack, palms searing as the steel of his blade conducted heat into flesh.
Skinners bawled in fear and pain around him, convulsing to the ground as the lightning clawed f
or their hearts. One spun and reached the top of the wall before a bolt punched through him, spraying steam-wreathed organs and boiling blood across barbarians whose courage had carried them through the now-dissipated wizard-blaze only to see true horror.
Lonadiel tried to get his footing and lean into the assault but found his boots no longer touching the ground, the sorcery carrying him backwards into the air. His heels clipped the top of the wall as he hurtled, sent him into a tumble that ended with a terrible crash as he landed amongst a tangle of Skinner elders. A body landed on top of him, grunted and was still.
Pain blazed through battered joints. Lonadiel tried to get up. Feet thundered on the ground past his head. A steel-shod boot crashed off the side of his skull, sent sparks blasting through his vision. Another boot slammed over his spine. Another hit, and another, blows thundering through his frame until he gave way to blackness blissfully devoid of sound or pain.
Illah’s name was on his lips as panicking Skinners trampled him into unconsciousness.
THE MONSTROUS HALF-breed wheeled his way into a deadly dance, battleaxe cleaving a circle around him. Illah ducked as the berserker’s path carried him dangerously close. Rising from her crouch, she saw a Skinner shoulder his way past one of the youths from the river boat and move in on the half-hobgoblin’s flank. She glided into the barbarian’s path. His eyes had a moment to widen in shock behind his mask before steel lightning punched through his heart.
Wrenching her saber from the dead Skinner, Illah took a step back and met resistance. A glance over her shoulder revealed the grinning pirate, Rhenn standing at her back, warding off a barbarian’s attacks. She spun around from behind him and slashed into his assailant’s side, dropping the brute to the ground without even a last death rattle.
“No need to show off!” Rhenn said with bravado his heavy breathing belied. His gaze rose to the docks and fear froze the mirth from his face. “They’re getting through!”