by Mark Barber
Both warriors wrestled to gain the upper hand against each other as they rolled through the grass, but the struggle was short lived, given Orion’s size and strength. He rolled on top of the hissing, snapping demon and slammed a metal clad fist into its face, again and again and again, until the creature’s struggles grew weaker and blood dripped from his fist. Orion looked around frantically for his sword but saw it discarded several feet away; his eyes picked a rock out in the darkness instead, so he lifted it high above his head and brought it crashing down on the Abyssal, time and time again until he felt the skull cave in.
His injured leg aching, blood dripping down his right arm from his open wound, and gore covering his left hand from beating the Abyssal to death, Orion wearily clambered back up to his feet, recovered his sword, and stumbled over toward Aestelle. The tall woman stood against two opponents, desperately defending herself in a furious melee against both fanged creatures; two more Abyssals lay dead at her feet. Orion let out a roar and quickened his pace toward them. Both Abyssals looked across at the blood-soaked paladin limping furiously over from killing five of their brethren and quickly sprinted off into the woods behind Aestelle.
“Take them down!” Orion yelled. “Shoot them!”
Sweat dripping from her brow, Aestelle shook her head.
“Let them go,” she breathed heavily, “let them run back to their friends. I want those bastards to know all about us.”
Orion exhaled and sheathed his greatsword, looking down at the Abyssals Aestelle had killed.
“What went wrong?” he demanded.
“I had it covered,” Aestelle snapped, “I didn’t need your help. Don’t think for a second that you’ve rescued me or I owe you one. I can take care of myself.”
“Yet the question remains,” Orion continued, his blood still boiling from the fight. “You tell me you took on six of them single-handed, yet this has not gone as well.”
“I have a way of dealing with these things,” Aestelle said as she collapsed to sit on a felled tree trunk. “Get to a distance where you can fill the first enemy with arrows. That’s the free one. Then they react. Shoot down the second, and by the time they reach you, they’re already halfway to panicking. You only need to take down one or two more and the rest will run.”
“So what went wrong?”
“I missed the second one,” Aestelle said with evident frustration, “that never happens. Not normally. Anyway, you’re in no position to judge. Look at your arm, you’ve caught one.”
Orion nodded down to the torn mail at his leg.
“Two, actually.”
Aestelle nodded, lifting her arm to show where three jagged, parallel tears ran through her armor to show exposed skin beneath from her armpit down across her midriff.
“I’ve already healed myself,” she said. “I’ve got nothing left to help you, not until I’ve recovered.”
“Never mind that,” Orion said, “is this a portal stone? Did they find anything useful?”
“I have no idea, I wouldn’t know a portal stone if I walked into one.”
“What?! You said that Abyssals move using portal stones. If you’re some great demon hunter, how come you know nothing about them?”
“I never said I was a great demon hunter!” Aestelle snarled. “Why do you expect so much from me?”
Orion shook his head and turned away. His healing powers had stopped the bleeding in his leg, but it still pained him greatly, and the wound in his arm throbbed from his fingertips to his shoulder.
“Sit down,” Aestelle commanded curtly, producing a bandage from inside the top of one of her thigh boots. “I’ll stop the bleeding until we can find some light, and then I can stitch that up for you.”
Orion sat on the felled tree as Aestelle crouched next to him, unbuckling his pauldron and gauntlet to get a better look at the extent of his wound.
“Why do you expect so much from me?” she repeated, her tone now far less confrontational. “You expect me to know everything about what we face, you expect me to single-handedly slay every Abyssal in our path. Why do you put me on a pedestal?”
Orion winced as Aestelle pressed the bandage against his wound and set about wrapping it around his arm. He took a moment to attempt to find calm and clarity, to channel his words away from confrontation toward something more productive. Perhaps angered by the continual pain flaring up from his wounds, he decided that Aestelle did not have enough blunt honesty in her life. He could provide that.
“I do not put you on a pedestal,” he said, “you do that yourself. Half of the words coming out of your mouth are self-praise and adoration. For most people who talk like you do, I would imagine it is a wall to shield their insecurities. But with you, I do not think that is the case. I think you really do think so much of yourself.”
“Oh?” Aestelle stifled a laugh. “But you don’t think so much of me.”
“Not as much as you do, and I doubt there are enough people who stand up to you and tell you that, which is why you are so arrogant. A woman like you can go through life fluttering her eyelids, pouting, and shoving her chest out to get pretty much what she wants. But not from me. I shall tell you how it is even if others are too scared or enraptured by you to do so.”
Orion gritted his teeth as the bandage was tied. He waited in silence for a sarcastic quip in response to his assertiveness, but nothing came. Confused, he stood and looked across at Aestelle. The tall woman picked up her bow and began walking down the hill, back toward where they had left their horses.
“We had better find somewhere to lay up for the night,” she said quietly. “I’d imagine we’ll be fighting them again tomorrow.”
***
Tancred inspected the blade handed back across to him from his surviving squire. The longsword was sharpened, oiled, and the intricacies of the decorative handle cleaned to an impressive shine. He looked up at where the squire stood nervously before him and smiled.
“Good job, Max,” he said, “go and get some sleep. We shall be leaving early in the morning.”
The young squire nodded silently and departed. Tancred sheathed the sword and stood up, stretching the aching muscles of his back. Their campsite was set up not far from the coastal road, to the north of the encampment massacre and sheltered from the elements in a shallow, natural ditch that remained dry in the unseasonably hot autumn. Jeneveve knelt by the group’s campfire, leading the other paladins and a few of the men-at-arms and supplymen in prayer. Tancred picked up his Eloicon and paced over to join them but was stopped as the sound of hooves on the road grabbed his attention. Buckling his sword belt around his waist, he walked out to the road. His nerves settled as he saw Xavier galloping down from the north. The veteran paladin brought his horse to a halt by the encampment and jumped down from the saddle.
“There is something definitely afoot, Lord Paladin,” he greeted Tancred. “More reports of the same sort of activity. There is a farm about two hours north of here. The workers there said the same thing. Two Elohi, riding out to do battle with the Abyssals.”
The two days heading north, back toward the site of the original massacre where they had lost the majority of their soldiers, had resulted in many similar stories. Two riders, scouring the countryside to strike fear into the hearts of the invading demons. The story did not add up to Tancred, but he was confident that some of it would be based on some truth. They were not alone in their endeavors.
“Did you ask if any of them had seen the two?” Tancred asked. “How do they know they are Elohi?”
“I asked,” Xavier nodded, “they said it was two Elohi, a man and a woman. Both were very tall, very powerful with blonde hair and blue eyes. Both were very beautiful.”
“Yet they both rode horses,” Tancred winced, “which would suggest they cannot fly and therefore do not have the wings possessed by all Elohi, without exception. This is, of course, moving past the obvious fact that an Elohi is twice the size of a man and would crush a horse by sitting on it.”
“Do you wish to follow up these reports?” Xavier asked.
Tancred’s thoughts were interrupted as, again, he heard the sound of galloping hooves. This time, the riders approached from the south. Xavier followed Tancred back to the road, both paladins with their swords ready at their sides. Two riders hurtled along the road, plumes of dust left in their wake in the early evening sunlight. Tancred could tell, even from some distance, that one of the riders was armored and rode a barded warhorse. Intrigued to see a military man approaching from the direction of the capital, Tancred hoped and prayed for the best, and he stepped out onto the road to attract their attention.
As the two riders approached, Tancred’s face broke into a smile as he recognized the lead horseman as a paladin; wearing a lighter shade of blue than a knight of the Sacred Arc, but a paladin nonetheless. The two riders stopped by Tancred and Xavier. The second rider, a tall, lean man with short, dark hair and a neat beard, stepped down from his horse and offered a smile.
“Are you part of Dictator-Prefect Hugh’s force, sent by the Duma?” the lead rider demanded, still sat atop his horse.
The paladin, a middle-aged warrior with a scarred face and long, blond-white hair, looked down at Tancred and Xavier expectantly. Tancred noticed a distinctive sword etched on the paladin’s belt buckle, marking him out as from the Order of the Blades of Onzyan, another of the largest and most powerful paladin orders in the Hegemony.
“We are the force,” Tancred replied, “at least, we are all that has survived. I am Lord Paladin Tancred of Effisus, 15th Cohort, Order of the Sacred Arc. This is Brother Xavier, my second.”
“Brother Silus, 1st Cohort, Order of the Blades of Onzyan,” the paladin replied, emphasizing the elite nature of his status as a knight of a 1st Cohort. “How many survivors do you have?”
Xavier stepped forward before Tancred could respond.
“I served with your lot sixteen years ago, at the Battle of Yattin Pass,” Xavier said gruffly. “Fine Order. I would hate to think that standards have slipped so much that a rank and file paladin thinks it appropriate to address a senior officer of another order from atop his horse, without using the correct marks of respect.”
Tancred stifled a smile at the touching mark of loyalty from his senior paladin. Silus lowered himself from his saddle.
“My apologies, Lord Paladin,” he said in a tone that clearly indicated he was anything but remorseful. “May I enquire how many of the Dictator-Prefect’s detachment have survived?”
Tancred pointed to the ragged group huddled around the fire in prayer.
“That is it. The others are all dead, including the Dictator-Prefect.”
“Excuse me.”
Tancred looked across to the second man, who moved across and offered his hand in greeting. Flecks of white in the man’s beard and temples marked him out as either graying prematurely, or having a youthful face for a man of some forty years. He wore simple leggings of black with a blue jacket and matching cloak. He carried a legion pattern sword at his side, but was otherwise unremarkable.
“My name is Valletto,” the man smiled as Tancred accepted his hand, “I was sent here by the Duma. Your message reached the senators and there is naturally much concern. I’ve been sent here to find out exactly what has happened so we can… cast any rumors aside and work out exactly what assistance you need.”
Tancred’s eyes widened as he fought to control his rising temper, his fatigue making the battle all the more difficult.
“We need assistance now!” he snapped. “We’ve over a hundred dead and Abyssals running amuck across the Hegemon’s land! We do not need a Duma sponsored investigation, we need soldiers! An entire legion, for starters!”
“I need to get the information to the Duma for that to happen,” Valletto said, his hands extended to either side. “Without knowing the extent of the threat, the Duma cannot respond appropriately. The Hegemon’s forces are stretched thin from border to border, and beyond.”
“And who are you to speak on behalf of the Duma?” Tancred insisted.
“I am the Deputy Senior Battle Mage of the 2nd Legion,” Valletto replied. “I was selected to find you by Grand Mage Saffus of Aigina, Advisor Primus of the Arcane to the Duma.”
Tancred closed his mouth immediately, exchanging an uncomfortable glance with Xavier. Saffus’ reputation as a man never to be trifled with was notorious. Aside from Valletto’s faultless credentials as an experienced battle mage, carrying the authority of Saffus of Aigina meant that respect was due.
“I understand, of course,” Tancred said, mirroring the older man’s use of a passive stance. “We all realize that this is but one threat to our beloved Hegemony. I would never expect the Duma to act on scant information. Just tell me what you need to know, and I will do all I can to provide you with the information you need.”
“Thank you,” Valletto smiled warmly. “But first, do you have a soldier named Constance?”
Again, Tancred and Xavier exchanged looks.
“You found Constance?” Tancred exclaimed.
“Yes, gravely wounded, sadly,” Valletto said gently. “The knights escorting me did all they could to stabilize her injuries. She has been taken to a sisterhood convent where hopefully she will recover.”
“What happened to her? Where did you find her?”
“Two days south of here. She had been stabbed. She could only say the name ‘Dionne’. Did you find the former captain?”
“Oh, we found him,” Tancred grimaced. “He is at the head of the entire Abyssal force.”
“What force are we talking about?” Silus asked. “Everybody we have encountered on the ride north has only heard rumors or, at most, seen a mere handful of lower Abyssals.”
“No, we saw them,” Xavier explained. “They ambushed our encampment at night. They surrounded us on all sides. It was the dead of the night so giving you an accurate number is not possible, but I would estimate that the absolute minimum was two hundred. But double that number could have been hidden in the darkness behind the front ranks, if not more.”
Valletto took in a slow breath.
“The Duma has already begun to assemble a force, assuming the worst,” he explained, “but I must pass this information on immediately. It will take some time to send the message on to Saffus.”
“Set up here for the night with us,” Tancred said. “We are in the very midst of the lands polluted with their presence, and there is some safety in numbers.”
***
Valletto sat on a small rock at the edge of the encampment, his eyes drawn to the darkness of the wooded hill a few dozen yards ahead of him, and both hands wrapped around his staff. Leaves rustled in the foliage at the edge of the tree line, no doubt caused by something as harmless as a fox or a small deer. But, his senses on edge and enhanced by the darkness of the night, the disturbance was instantly warped into an army of Abyssals; their evil, malicious eyes fixed on him as they crept stealthily through the undergrowth, their blades held ready for the attack.
A soldier barked a short laugh in the small camp behind him, bringing his senses and imagination back to the real world. Set out on the ground in front of him was the arcane platform he needed to send his message to his master in the City of the Golden Horn. Three lines were drawn in the earth to form an irregular triangle, their measurements exact and precise. The required components were laid at each corner of the triangle; a blue soulgem, a pouch of ether dust, and a vial of marcani powder, again all measured out precisely. Valletto had drawn a circle inside the circle, its line touching two sides of the triangle at specific points. Any incorrect measurement would make the spell fail at best; at worst, he could inadvertently send information, thoughts, or emotions to a random corner of the world, or even into the Abyss itself. The preparations were simple enough; it was triple checking they were correct that took so much time.
Sighing, Valletto dragged himself up to his feet and paced over to take his place in the circle. He sat down unt
idily in the center, never one for unnecessary emotion. He had seen the spell turned into a theatrical ritual involving gratuitous candles, incantations, and all sorts of unnecessary additions to impress any that watched. But magic was simple enough to him, somewhere between the spiritual and science, and required followed procedures and nothing more. Closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath in through his nostrils, Valletto calmed his mind and focused on the task in hand. It was a spell he had used many times, a spell of the misleadingly named ‘petty’ school of magic; spells simple enough to be used by sorcerers of any discipline. But while the spell of transmission was simple enough over short distances, to send information across the length of an entire nation was something else entirely.
A mental image of Valletto’s family forced its way to the fore of his mind. He let out a breath, smiling, holding onto that image for longer than he should as he savored every last detail of his wife’s face, his son’s smile, his daughter’s eyes. With sadness clawing at his heart, Valletto pushed the image aside and set about mentally reciting the incantations required to push his presence into the arcane plains.
The dark red of his eyelids gave way to the wavy gray of the transition from his physical body as the spell took effect, the sound of his breathing faded away to be replaced by the whistling of the winds as his consciousness leapt up into the night sky above him, leaving the earth behind. There was no grand view, no sweeping panorama of the Basilean countryside below him, just the sensation of weightlessness and a dark, hazy, nauseous view of shimmering gray, patterns not quite identifiable in dull tones. Then he was in, intercepting the plains in the realm of the arcane. To describe them to a non magic user would be akin to describing color to the blind or music to the deaf; it was a sensation, something which surrounded the consciousness but not the physical body, something which permeated and cocooned, which could be tapped into but also could cause great harm if not respected.
