144: Wrath (30 page)

Vor kicked up, threw the Eryntaph over his head, and rolled back to land on top. He head-butted the brawler - his powerful horns caving in the creature's forehead - and did not stop until the Eryntaph lay still.

Only one foe remained.

Xandra was very much afraid and would have been happy to admit it to Kiff or any ally were one at her side. The Coranthen moved with blinding speed, and her rapiers were a whirling vortex that cut the air and made it sing in time with her rhythm. By comparison, Xandra felt slow and ungainly. Her strikes missed their target every time, often throwing Xandra off balance and making her vulnerable to counter-attack.

She had landed several blows against the Cratin, but he just laughed each time her quarterstaff struck him. She did not have the strength to contest with him nor could she compete with his endurance. The two Moon Warriors were a perfect team. Together they were virtually invincible. Xandra just wished that the chink in their defenses would show itself soon.

All her efforts, though, remained focused on defense. The Coranthen woman danced a circuitous pattern around her, stabbing her thin blades straight out and testing Xandra’s guard. For a moment, she thought about breaking her quarterstaff into two pieces. The woman seemed to be on both sides of her at once, and Xandra had trouble moving the weapon back and forth to block each blow.

Then she felt the net fall on her. The thick cords weighed her down and clung to her leathers with tiny, steel barbs. The Cratin had bided his time, waiting for her to be pressed and distracted fully by the Coranthen. Xandra was caught, and her death was imminent.

The Coranthen stopped her spinning as the Cratin raised his trident. Xandra only had one chance, and she regretted wasting so much of her energy on the House of Stars assassins. She closed her eyes and focused her will. She raised her arm and held out her palm as the Cratin was about to strike. A small ray, no thicker than her quarterstaff, lanced out. It struck the horned warrior in the forehead and dropped him cold on the wood floor.

Xandra struggled out of the net, using the surprise of her assault to escape while the Coranthen was distracted. The shock did not last, however, and the deadly woman spun into action once again.

This time, she came directly at Xandra, and the young student realized she had been a part of a game until now.

The Coranthen’s blades found their way past Xandra’s defense. Within moments, she had holes pierced in her forearm, thigh, and stomach. Blood stained her white trappings, and she fell to her knees before her attacker.

Xandra closed her eyes and tried to focus her energy once again, but she was too exhausted, too broken to summon the energy. In the end, she would fail in her quest before ever stepping foot on Waysmale’s rocky soil.

She crumpled forward onto her hands, and the Coranthen woman stabbed her once through each shoulder.

Tears welled in Xandra’s eyes. "I’m sorry, Master."

The Moon Warrior brought a single foil down for the kill.

Xandra shook violently, white clouds blurring her vision. A great beam of brilliant white light surrounded her and shot straight up into the sky. It consumed the Coranthen and blasted a wagon-sized hole through the ceiling. As the shaft of light faded, tiny pinpricks of light danced around Xandra’s shoulders. For a moment, they held the shape of glimmering, draconic wings before breaking apart and fading.

The morning’s sunlight streamed in from the open roof, and Xandra collapsed to the floor.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Matthew the Blue considered himself a patient man, but even he was growing tired of waiting. Waiting, however, was the Faldred cultural pastime. Apparently, after the altar boy was sent to fetch the scrying scale, there was an in-depth and one sided discussion from the councilman in charge of the stones about which would be best suited for their efforts. A second altar boy was sent, at Matthew’s urging, and returned two hours later to report the quandary to the group. Two more hours passed, during which time the priest would hear no more of Matthew’s speeches until they could consult the magestone.

Finally, the Faldred boy returned carrying a large, oblong disk that looked like a glossy, crimson slate.

"Ah, here we are," Deris said as he stood. He took the red scale from the boy and placed it on the pearlescent floor. "Come; let us check on destiny’s progress."

A white-robed Faldred with dark purple spots on his otherwise blue-grey skin knelt over the magestone. His head was shiny, and Matthew found himself distracted by his own reflection for a moment before returning his focus to the arcane device on the ground.

Images danced and blurred with each waving of the Faldred’s hands. He chanted softly, repeating the same phrase as he shaped the arcanis around him. His low voice droned on and on, and Matthew saw heads bobbing with near sleep all over the sanctuary.

Matthew had seen many mages scry in the past, and no session had ever taken this long to start. "Something’s wrong."

Deris looked over to Matthew. "Hmm. This is very curious. They must be in a place guarded against scrying. Namol is close friends with Flint and should not be having this much trouble locating him."

Matthew scratched his long beard. "Try focusing on the Sword of the Nalunas. It should give you a stronger beacon to draw toward."

Namol began his chanting anew. Within seconds, the images cleared. Polas’s sword, the Blade of Leindul, sat unattended on a table in the middle of a crowded tavern surrounded by a pile of coins.

"That’s odd," Deris said.

"This isn’t good," Matthew said. "This isn’t good at all."

Matthew stepped back from the images and looked out at the gathered congregation. Fear clouded his mind and made it difficult for him to think or act.

"We must wait," Deris said resolutely. "We must watch, pray, and have faith."

Matthew was not the type of person to sit around while others risked their lives for a cause. His years spent traveling the world studying its cultures, lore, and histories had taught him that fate was not shaped by those who watched and waited. It was given motion by those who were themselves moved to action.

He shook his head and walked away from the front of the auditorium. After he passed the last row of gathered Faldred, he conjured a yellow portal and turned. He felt very small in the grand cathedral, but he knew that he was right to leave.

"You talk of prayers and faith like you have some deep understanding of the universe," he said to everyone gathered, though his eyes were fixed directly on Deris. "You hide here inside your Temple of Leindul deep within the Hollow Mountains, ‘safe’ from Exandercrast and the evils of the world while others bleed and die for what they believe in."

"Matthew –" Deris started.

"They risk all they are to give you a better life," Matthew continued. "Risk it all, while you hide."

Murmurs stirred throughout the assembly. The priest could no longer make eye contact with Matthew, but instead kept his head turned toward the ground.

"So stay in this safe hill. Stay with your fears," Matthew said condemningly. "I will go, because I believe that faith without action is worthless. It does not hide behind ancient prayers and rituals, it lives and it breathes, and it moves all of Traesparin."

Matthew shook his head, turned, and left the cathedral in its pristine silence.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The morning suns finally won their battle against the fading moons, casting their orange light into a lustrous blue sky. Long, thin shadows lay along the dirt and stone of the conservatory, clutching on to the last traces of the night’s chill lest they vanish along with it.

The magestones winked out one by one in response to the natural light, and the fountains began their daily bubbling. The central fountain was a series of columns, one large and three small, arranged in the same pattern as the House of Suns iconography. Water trickled from each, running a spiraling circle in their descent along an intricately carved path down into the basin.

The room was a pastoral scene of peace in the center of the Thieves’ Guild in the middle of a bustling city. Its strange placidity was shattered by the scuff of boots on the cobblestone paths, the song of swinging blades, and the clash of swords and armor.

Behind the central fountain, on a side path that cut through a grove of soric fruit trees, son fought furiously against father. Polas ducked Calec’s blade and sidestepped to remove himself from the line of attack. His own sword, retrieved from its surrender on the damp ground, was no match for the dark weapon Calec wielded and could be sundered with ease.

So Polas never let a direct blow hit him or his blade. He used his practiced skill as a swordsman to turn each swing from his son or to step away from each strike. He was sweating, though, and Calec showed no signs of fatigue. Polas knew that if he was going to have a chance to survive the battle he needed to level the playing field.

"Son, I don’t want to fight you," Polas said, as he slipped under a high blow. "Yield and walk away. Live a free life. That’s all I ever wanted for you."

Calec’s next swing was a high arcing over the head strike. Polas stepped in close, under the blow, and locked his arms around his son’s biceps. He rolled out along Calec’s sword hand and twisted the arm as he went. Calec winced as his elbow snapped backward, but he did not cry out. He did, however, drop his blade.

Polas pressed the attack, using the palm of his left hand to strike Calec below the breastplate several times, driving him back. He followed the blows by attacking with his stolen sword. The blade did little to mar the black armor Calec wore, and Polas did not want to risk a mortal wound to his son by striking at a seam. Instead, he used it to sustain momentum and keep the boy off balance. With a hit to the shoulder followed by another palm-strike to the chest, Polas had his son up against the trunk of a large tree.

Calec curled forward and grabbed his father’s wrist. He pulled the old man close and kneed him in the stomach.

Polas staggered, the wind knocked from him, and Calec used the extra seconds to tie his broken arm down to his stomach with his belt before the fight began anew.

For every powerful hit Polas landed, Calec landed three quick jabs despite being reduced to one actionable arm.

"Please, Calec," Polas pleaded. "I don’t want to lose you again."

The mess hall was in shambles. Of the twenty plus tables that once stood in the room, only one was still whole and standing upright. The ceiling sagged without full support from the broken rafters, and benches lay scattered about the room in splintered pieces. Dislodged spikes pierced through walls, ceiling, and floor like brads through leather, their fiery unguent starting small blazes around the room.

Vrihnassk had taken up refuge behind a great iron pot, but still managed to poke his head around at opportune times to taunt his Faldred adversary.

The gorachna’s breath came in giant puffs, and the beast was beginning to tire of the sport. If not for the magic that compelled it, the creature would likely have abandoned its aggression entirely. Despite its power and strength, the monster was more used to hunting in mountainous terrain and using ambush techniques to catch its prey.

"Alright, you over-grown gorilla," Flint yelled. "Let’s see what you’ve got. Come on!"

Flint was running around the room at full speed. He used the spike that had once impaled his shoulder as though it were a great lance. His full speed left something to be desired, and the gorachna spent most of its time watching the Faldred tire himself. He waved his hands high overhead in an attempt to provoke the gorachna, to make it attack, to make it move, anything.

Flint's lungs burned, and his leg started to cramp, so he stopped and pointed a finger. A single fireball shot out and blasted the beast in the face. It did no real damage, but it did succeed in angering the predator beyond reason. The gorachna barreled forward and swung both of its arms out wide. They reached its sides and stopped fast. The gorachna, now lunging for the attack, was jerked backward, exposing its belly to Flint.

Flint turned and charged the confused beast, massive spike held out before him. The barb pierced through the gorachna’s hard belly, and Flint jammed it upward into the creature’s heart.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and admire his handiwork as the beast fell backward. He had concentrated his hottest flame on the gorachna’s chains while keeping him distracted. The chains had turned to slag under the focused assault and then cooled enough to hinder the beast’s movement by holding him fast to the broken floor.

Vrihnassk’s eyes went wide when he peeked out and saw the demise of his precious creation. He began making arcane gestures with his hands and chanting at a frenzied pace. Three small black pits rippled open in front of him.

Flint gestured toward the Narculd summoner. "Don’t bother," he said. A plume of golden flames enveloped Vrihnassk, seared flesh from bone, and left a pile of ash in its wake. The black pits shrank and disappeared with the passing of their creator.

The Faldred scholar hobbled over to the one standing table and leaned against it. Sweat poured from his brow, his tunic was soaked, and his breath came in deep gasps.

"Perhaps I’ll have a short rest."

He sat on the floor and surveyed the ruined room around him. After a moment, he nodded, pulled his journal from his pack, and began writing.

Waysmale’s days were just like its nights, sunless and hot. The entire island was a rocky plateau crisscrossed by deep canyons formed by ancient rivers long dry. It was a dark wasteland. Only the hardiest of creatures could survive the cruel terrain. The rock tree was one of few plants to grow on the island, so named for its ability to draw nutrients out of the very rocks beneath it. Stone grathles hid amongst the briars and thorn patches that grew in the few places moisture was available. Giant buzzards with wings like burned bronze hunted small lizards that scurried between the rocks, carried fish in from the sea to their cliff-side perches, or picked up unlucky carrion that met their demise in this unforgiving land.

Several of the flying reptiles circled high above the valley eagerly watching the bloodshed below. They were merely shadows against a cloud-filled sky. Lightning danced in the upper clouds, promising an impending downpour.

Kiff’s blue-silver hair was matted down with sweat, and he was repeatedly forced to wipe his brow lest his vision be obscured. Three Ibor warriors lay dead already, their black blood spilled out on the rocky ground, and Kiff was relieved to find that not all Ibor were created equal. Some only had patches of impenetrable skin, which made them viable targets. He was doing his best to weed the thin-skinned Ibor out from the pack so that he could even the numbers.

In his stiff left hand, he held an ebony needle. He had already thrown fifteen like it. The dexterity in his fingertips alone was enough to fling the needles with pinpoint precision as he whirled through the air on his hovering board. Every few volleys a needle would stick, and Kiff would note the target. He had already marked six, and three of those made up the corpses lying beneath the mass.

The Ibor leader watched his battalion assault the Undlander. He kept his arms and wings folded tightly across his chest, nothing but apathy on his face. If he had any love for the other Ibor gathered, he did not show it. He made no move to help them, as though he thought any who might need his help against a single Undlander did not deserve it.

Kiff had dared to launch a needle at him early on in the fight, but the fierce commander had caught and broken it like a splinter of wood. He made a mental note to allow the oversized Ibor to stay out of the combat as long as he wished.

The Ibor warriors leaped back and forth from rock to rock, sometimes using each other to gain a higher altitude. Kiff did his best to remain above them when he was not attacking directly, but they were starting to become crafty.

A group of three Ibors split off from the pack and climbed the rock wall that lined one side of the valley. They spread their wings in unison and soared down at Kiff before he had a chance to lift himself higher. They came at him like a totem of death, one above the other. Kiff cursed under his breath and decided to meet them head on.

He sped toward the lowest Ibor of the trio. At the last second, he dipped down and swung his sickle up. It caught the beast in the throat and hooked around its collarbone. Kiff used his momentum to swing off his board and over the Ibor. He landed briefly on its back and vaulted up to the next, slicing its wings as he passed. The third reached down for him, but Kiff was ready. He hooked his blade into the Ibor’s powerful leg muscle and pulled up. As the leg tore open, he lashed out, spilling the creature’s entrails.

As he fell, he extended his arm and swiped down along the spine of the second Ibor, who was already falling. Kiff pushed off the warrior’s back and flipped over backwards landing neatly on his board. The rocky creature plummeted toward the ground to land on top of the first, and his skull split from the impact.

Six down, fourteen to go. Then he could worry about the big one.

Kiff climbed for altitude, stashing away his sickle in its scabbard for a moment. He took out a handful of special daggers no bigger than his thumb. Each one held a shimmering orb in its center filled with a dancing red liquid that glowed in the black Waysmale sky.

With a shrill whistle, he dove toward the pack of Ibor below him, and several of the vicious beasts lifted their heads and roared at his approach.

He laughed. "Predictable."

Kiff unleashed a volley of the daggers and pulled up on his board to come to a hard stop. Most of the daggers hit ineffectually on the shoulders or backs of the warriors, but four found their marks in the open mouths of the roaring Ibor. In unison, the brilliant orbs exploded. Those who had been struck in their mouths were left with gaping holes blasted in the front of their skulls. A few others lost limbs or wings to the explosions, and others still bore only black marks on their rocky skin.