by S D Simper
When she looked back once more, she saw the dead beneath the dragon’s feet rise. Screams erupted. From the dragon’s back stood a figure that chilled her blood, one wearing blackened armor she knew, a helm she did not, and weapons crackling with dark matter.
Imperator Casvir leapt from his dragon and barraged into the crowd, merciless as his weapon tore through citizens and soldiers alike. They rose in undeath before they could even fall, joining the ranks of the Tyrant of Nox’Kartha.
Etolié dragged the children through the alley, disappearing around the stone corner only a few steps behind Sora and Lunestra.
The carnage quieted as they ran through an untouched street. “This way!” Etolié cried to a panicked family, and they ran behind a larger group of citizens, directed by a single guard.
Etolié heard a foreign skittering sound and knew in her blood it meant death. “Run!” she cried when she saw a monster claw over the roof—rotted flesh met her nostril as a figment of death landed before her. It bore no features, merely a cadaver’s face, stripped of flesh, but its claws had grown, the clothing it bore in tatters.
Etolié shoved the children away, ignoring them as one toppled. From the air, she withdrew a sword, created from her own imagination. When she released it, it attacked on its own accord, driving back the monster of dead flesh. She pulled the children along, running to escape the monster.
More appeared from the rooftops. Etolié heard screaming from behind but knew there was naught she could do without sacrificing her wards.
She had one vow—to save Lunestra—and in turn had adopted Lunestra’s—to save the children in her charge.
Before them, she heard the distant shouting of, “Go, go, go!” Etolié followed Sora and Lunestra and came upon a large archway, perhaps ten feet tall. Ancient stone stairs led down. Flocks of people fought to enter, directed by guards who shoved the stragglers through. Behind, Etolié saw a group of the dead approaching and knew her quarry would fall.
Etolié brought the children to Lunestra. “Stay here,” she instructed, then turned to Sora. “I trust you with a sword. Want to fight back a small legion of the dead?”
Sora looked to the street, then grabbed the little bird from her shoulder and shoved the poor thing down her shirt. “You’re one of the few people I’d die beside.”
Etolié offered her a sword, then pulled another from the air. She and Sora ran toward the oncoming death.
* * *
Sunlight managed to cut through the thick leaves, but the ground grew moist and the creatures singing were of a different sort, dark and eerie. During quiet moments, Flowridia shut her eyes and practically felt Aura’s presence—they had spent many years together here, learning all the wonders of the world.
Damp leaves shuffled beneath hooves and paws. The trunks of trees forced their group to deviate from each other, but never for long. They managed to maintain a circle of sorts, with Lara and Flowridia in the lead and their companions at the rear.
A question from behind startled them all. “Lady Flowridia?”
She recognized Coal’s voice and smiled as she faced him.
“Is it true you’ve been to Nox’Kartha?” Coal stared at her, hesitant as she nodded. “Is Nox’Kartha full of coffins and crypts like everyone says?”
“Not at all. It’s a beautiful city, full of gleaming buildings and paved roads and fountains. The castle itself is a little imposing, but that’s Murishani’s doing. I suspect he had more say in the architecture than Casvir.”
“So you’ve met the viceroy, too?”
She chuckled at his interest. “I have met Murishani, yes,” she replied. “He’s . . .” A charming, lecherous monster? “He’s an interesting man. I like Casvir much more.”
“I’ve heard,” Coal said, visibly excited, “that Viceroy Murishani once wrote up a contract between himself and Morathma.”
Flowridia shrugged. “That could be true.”
“I also heard,” he continued, blushing fiercely, “that he bedded a hundred virgin women at once.”
“Also, probably true. Though I’d be amazed if at least half of them weren’t men. Murishani gets who he wants.” She turned to Lara, though continued loud enough for Coal and the others to hear. “Apparently, Ayla told him that if he so much as looked at me, she’d rip his head off. Casvir has reinforced this as still true.”
Demitri suddenly perked up, stopping his footsteps as Lara said, “Was there any threat of him trying to sleep with you?”
“He made his intentions known, more than once,” Flowridia admitted, praying her grimace properly conveyed her disgust. “Khastra was kind enough to deter him the first time.” She slowed her horse. “Demitri?”
I hear something.
Thoughts of Soliel bombarded her memory. “What sort of something?”
No warning. Just a whirring and a thump as an arrow struck Lara’s back.
She gasped. Their entire party froze. Flowridia slid down from her horse and caught her as she fell.
Another arrow whizzed by her ear, missing her but striking Demitri. He howled, snarling in rage, and ran to join General Irons as he leapt from his horse. “Ambush!” the paladin cried, and Luftlight and he both drew their weapons and shields.
Amidst the chaos, Flowridia helped Lara fall gently to the ground, noticing the faint green aura emanating from the wound. “The head is deep,” she said, praying Lara could hear, “but this is maldectine. I have to pluck it out to heal—”
A weight smacked her in the throat, the momentum pulling her down. Gasping, she couldn’t breathe, realizing a chain had wrapped around her neck, weighted on both ends by small, iron balls. She tried in vain to unravel it, but she only managed to loosen it enough to cough a pained breath. “Lara—”
Clanging metal pulled their attention. Flowridia looked up just in time to see Demitri rip the arm from a masked attacker. The muted browns of his costume were unfamiliar; Flowridia knew not what this meant, only that from all sides, masked attackers appeared, swords readied. Irons already held two in combat.
Ropes flew, ensnaring Demitri as he roared. He crushed the head of one attacker, only to be met by three more, all lassoing him. He toppled, his back legs tied together, but still he fought those who dared approach.
She could hardly breathe, but by every god—she would fight. Flowridia shut her eyes, even as rough hands grabbed her. The men screamed as black lightning suddenly danced across her skin.
The earth rumbled. Flowridia grasped at every dead thing she felt, all the rodents and predators buried beneath the earth. When she opened her eyes, black spots danced in her vision, but she saw her quarry swarm the attackers—
Pain radiated through her arm. Still her undead attacked, but an arrow penetrated deep into the muscle. She tried to shriek—but oh, her breath was faint.
Demitri’s pained howl stole her attention. He fell to the ground with a sickening rumble, tied in every way with ropes. Metal clicked as they attached a chained collar to his throat.
An envoy of men stole the limp Lara. By every god, what if she were dead? Flowridia tried to stand, but her vision swam. She fell to her knees.
Ser Luftlight cried out as his weapon was ripped from his grip. They slit his throat; the spray of blood splattered Irons. Battered, beaten, his attackers pushed him to the ground and stole his sword. He stared up, ever belligerent.
A man—bearded and graying, his skin reminiscent of Thalmus’—strode in atop an armored horse. He slid down, smiling viciously at Irons. “It isn’t often a Solviraes travels in such light company.”
Irons scoffed. “You would dare—”
“I would.” The man shrugged. “Now, General Irons of Solvira, for the sake of your dying empress, do you yield?”
Flowridia watched the fight steadily drain from the general’s eyes as he looked over to Lara, deathly still in her capturers’ arms. He looked back up. “I yield,” he spat, and a collar immediately clicked around his throat, along with chains at his wrists
and ankles.
The man continued his rounds, staring at Demitri with interest. “A remarkable creature,” he mused. Demitri’s growl echoed with menace, but the man simply smiled. “Dangerous. He’ll fetch a high price. Keep this one looking pretty, boys. He’s meant for display.”
Two men shoved Coal forward, and the man narrowed his eyes. “Tie him up. I hear he works for the High Priestess,” he said, and then he approached the men supporting Lara. “Amazing. The most powerful sorceress in the realms—but all it takes is a little arrow to cut through her like paper.” Lara stirred, eyes rolling back in her head before she went fully limp.
The man caressed Lara’s hair, revealing her neck. Revulsion rose in Flowridia’s stomach. He withdrew a collar from around his belt—a collar embedded with a single shard of maldectine. It clicked as it sealed around her neck.
He reached over and grabbed the arrow nestled in her back. The snap of wood sickened Flowridia; he left the head embedded. “Without your blood powers, you’re nothing more than a scared girl.” He glanced up to his men. “Tie her up.”
They did, the powerful empress held thrall with ropes. Her eyes rolled back in her head, unconsciousness stealing her.
Around Flowridia was a void of men, but their leader approached with no fear. She forced herself to stay awake, spiteful as she managed to steal another gasping breath. “You’re a nuisance,” he said, and he spared a glance for the distant man still beating off undead rodents from his legs. “Lady Flowridia of Staelash, yes? Someone has a very weighty grudge against you. They’ve offered a hefty bounty.”
Her voice sounded of gravel, but she spat the words all the same. “Who are you—?” She coughed, the man’s image quickly turning to liquid.
“You may call me Shem.” He knelt beside her, then motioned to the men around them. Flowridia tried in vain to steady her breath, but no cloud of death seeped from her skin. Instead, the men snapped a collar around her neck—
All her magic, her connection to Demitri, vanished.
Though she spat at his feet, he stole the bag from her shoulder—helpless, she watched. “What do you mean?”
He ignored her, instead withdrawing tiny Ana, held by her spine and ribs, her tail wagging obliviously. Flowridia’s heart pounded in her ears at his intrigue. “Interesting little monster. Not worth a dime, considering it belongs only to you, though.”
“Who sent you?” Flowridia cried, though it was hardly a croak in her throat.
He dropped Ana, letting her clatter to the ground—she ran to join Flowridia, her little feet clawing at her dress as Shem withdrew the blue orb and the maldectine bracelet. “Fascinating.”
“Don’t.” Flowridia gasped, her breath only half inhaling. Spots appeared in her vision. “You don’t know who you’ll summon.”
“This is some sort of summoning sphere? We’ll let the buyers decide what it’s worth, then.” With a knowing grin to the maldectine, he shoved the duo in the pouch at his hip.
Flowridia coughed, and perhaps Ana sensed her distress. She stepped back and sat on her haunches, her front paws in the air as she mouthed a yip. Instead, her jaw snapped shut, bone against bone. Shem glanced at her and said, “Creepy little monster, that.”
Flowridia gasped for breath, actively fighting the blackness filtering into her eyes. It happened slowly, each blink feeling like molasses, but Shem brought his boot down onto sweet Ana—
And stomped down, her snapping bones louder than the cacophony of the forest.
In her last moments of consciousness, Flowridia recalled screaming as men grabbed her arms. She tried in vain to gather the crushed remains of her dearest pet, the sight of a tiny, shattered skull as sharp as a stab to her heart. Her hand skimmed the bones as the men wrenched her to her feet.
She managed to pocket a single shard. The world went black.
* * *
Etolié wouldn’t say she was good with a sword, but she was pretty fucking good at summoning a dragon of equal or lesser value to the ones Casvir had brought along.
He was a little guy, though still taller than Etolié, created from images of dragons she’d seen in books in Solvira. With glittering, white scales and eyes as golden as a halo, her dragon valiantly distracted the undead, occasionally breathing fire the ghouls slaughtered their peers to avoid.
They couldn’t die of fear, but they were smart enough to know certain death—even if it was less than assured, given the fire was fake.
The dead only increased in number—whenever she and Sora beat back a small group, another would approach, the waves ever growing. When the numbers grew too dense, the ground split before them, deep crevices etching into the earth. The ghouls stumbled, but when they didn’t fall in, that particular illusion failed.
Sora did not tire, however. The half-elf had been born to this, it seemed, decapitating ghouls with the fluid motions of a seasoned soldier, precise and graceful. Etolié could only spare the occasional glance to admire her, however, given her own attention to directing her illusionary dragon. She looked back and saw that the crowd had shrunk. Lunestra gathered the children to her side.
Then, an actual dragon crawled over the rooftop. Within its skeletal mouth, Etolié saw dark matter form. Its glowing, purple eyes settled onto them. She screamed, “Sora, run!”
The dragon spat its black, cloud-like flame upon Etolié’s dragon—who kept fighting, of course, much to the real dragon’s apparent frustration. Etolié, with her limited strength, grabbed Sora and yanked her into the air, pure adrenaline fueling her as they clumsily darted forward, her wings aloft.
They nearly tackled Lunestra, but Etolié managed to gather the children with her wings and lead them through the tunnel just as the street swarmed with death.
For space, Etolié tucked her wings against her back, their light fading as she illusioned them away. Torches lit the underground staircase, as well as runes glowing in vibrant orange upon the ceiling. Etolié looked back and saw the undead swarm the entrance and beat upon it like a stone wall—and when the dragon blew its terrible, necrotic flame, it dissipated harmlessly against the invisible barriers.
Finding their path blockaded, the undead disappeared from the door. Etolié could hear her own pulse.
“Etolié—”
Etolié whirled around, realizing Sora and her charges had waited a few steps down. “I just survived the undead. Don’t murder me with a heart attack now.”
Sora merely grinned and handed her a crying child to carry. “Lunestra and the rest are waiting at the bottom of the stairs.”
Etolié clung to the sobbing girl, the innate need to comfort the poor thing overshadowing all else. She pressed the child’s tear-streaked face against her shoulder. The little girl’s sweaty arms clutched her tight, and Etolié whispered, “The worst is over.”
She took careful steps down. Upon the ceiling, ancient runes pulsed with faint light.
Etolié read and wrote angelic words, had learned them in her youngest years from Eionei, even understood wards and their use, though certainly not as intricately as Flowers. But as Lunestra had said, these were not Celestial writings—they were Demoni, written by Ku’Shya because the God of Death couldn’t understand them.
But she knew the symbols. She herself had traced them upon Khastra’s forearm scarcely a week ago and many times before. “Wards against undeath, Etolié,” Khastra had explained years ago, “so I may tear them apart.”
Dread pulsed cold through Etolié’s limbs. “Sora, we aren’t safe here,” she whispered, lest she panic the masses with her echo.
The cavern branched off into a maze-like pattern, perfect to blockade for a siege should the need be foreseen. As it was, the surviving populace slowly filled the enormous center, or so Lunestra had explained, lambs for the slaughter when the undead breached them nonetheless.
Sora stopped. “Archbishop, wait a moment.” Lunestra joined them, confusion marring her elderly features. Children clutched her arms as she patiently waited for Sora to con
tinue.
“Etolié,” Sora said, frowning as audible tension filled her words, “explain.”
“This cavern was created in the war against Ilune. Ku’Shya set them to protect Sol Kareena’s citizens—”
“I do not happily admit that I knew Ilune,” Khastra said, grimacing as she sipped her ale. “But I worked for Solvira during the Civil War and well before. At the final stand, I stood between Ilune’s forces and the City of Light and helped defend the city when the dead were breaching the walls—”
“Nox’Kartha’s general knows the catacomb’s weakness,” she said, hardly audible, scarcely breathed.
Sora’s face lost color, and Lunestra said, “You mean—”
“We have to collapse the entrances—”
A wicked tongue echoed throughout the cavern, speaking the Demoni words. Etolié knew it, had granted it a healthy respect in the past, but never had it chilled her so, the Bringer of War’s unmistakable cadence. No discernible source; it simply echoed across the cavern. She would be here; of course she would be here.
It was the very damning truth Khastra had hinted at all along.
Shadows rose around them, the torches’ lights struggling to breach the rising darkness. The runes on the walls grew blinding—then extinguished.
Etolié let her wings expand to fill the large hallway of the cavern, radiating a light the shadows could not consume. From behind, up the stairs, she heard the first signs of chittering, bony limbs, and already Sora had begun running, dragging three children behind. Etolié clung to the girl in her arms, tenderness filling her when the girl grabbed her silver hair—not tugging, no, but stroking it for comfort. Once upon a time, as a small girl, Etolié had done the same to her momma’s star-lit locks.
Lunestra said, “I can lead us to the center—”
“No.” Etolié knew the time for tact had long ago passed. Tears filled her eyes unbidden. “We need to find an alcove. I can’t protect us out in the open, but I think I can save us that way. Trust me.”
