by Hondo Jinx
Apparently—thank the wind and stars!—her brother had stopped in the Tower of Knowledge on his way here, for he now held the legendary grey elf blade, Vine Caster, and by the sword’s pale green glow, she could see that Vine Caster had accepted Briar as a warrior worthy to wield it.
Hope surged higher when the Iron Druid entered the room, leveling his index finger at Mooret, and hissing “cass,” which meant death in the grey elf tongue, and which, Holly knew, was the final word in death whisper. Mooret claimed that his armor protected him from magic, but here was the deadliest of all druidic spells, cast by one of the most powerful druids in the world.
Mooret chuckled, unharmed. “The Iron Druid. I had expected more from you, honestly. But in all fairness, I also expected more from the grey elves of old on the first Night of Burning. Now that I think of it, their chief druid might have been…” and he squinted at Holly’s father, tilting his head thoughtfully. Then mirth filled his voice. “Yes, it was. Remarkable! He was your ancestor, your grandfather many generations removed.” Mooret’s mirth bubbled over into laughter. “He died weeping over the remains of his children. A pitiful scene. Embarrassing, truth be told. But even a great druid cannot bring his children back from ash—as you will soon learn.”
Briar bellowed with fury, pointing Vine Caster at Mooret. A long, luminescent green vine shot forward, twisted around Mooret several times, pinning his arms to his sides, and tightened like a green python.
Holly’s heart cheered.
But then Mooret spread his arms—effortlessly, it seemed to her—snapping the vines which had in millennia past bound giants in place.
Lily fired a bow from the doorway.
Mooret’s head jerked.
Lily fired again, but Mooret’s arm moved in a flash, slicing her shots to splinters in midair. “This one!” Mooret roared, his voice once more filled with mirth despite the feather shaft jutting from his visor. “This one has spirit! For that, I’ll—”
“Everyone attack at once!” Holly shouted, realizing that Mooret—or perhaps his sword and armor—had been keeping them from attacking simultaneously, holding them in near paralysis, like a snake mesmerizing prey, so that while one attacked, the others could only gape.
Her command jarred them into action, however, and as she swung her staff, her family and Estus charged, everyone attacking at once.
But Mooret was a fiery demon, roaring with laughter as he spun, whirling his flaming sword so quickly that a river of red fire encircled him. And each time an attacker struck, Mooret’s sword parried the blow with a flash of red sparks.
Holly attacked him from behind, swinging her magical staff.
Inexplicably, Mooret blocked her attack without even looking. The parry struck with such force that the staff jerked from her hands and jolts of pain raced up her arms. A bright flash of flame blinded her, and the heat sent her staggering backward.
As her vision returned, she saw her family backing away, each of them blinking and either disarmed or hurrying to find their grip again.
“Pitiful,” Mooret said. “Pitiful and predictable. And, if I may be honest, boring. You’ve wasted enough of my time, grey elves. Time to burn.”
He started walking straight at Holly, raising his flaming sword overhead.
“Stop!” a new voice commanded, and Mooret halted.
Suddenly the room was hot.
Very hot and very bright.
Thelia stood just inside the doorway, engulfed in flames. Her eyes were huge and wild.
Mooret beamed. “It has begun, True Matriarch,” he reported proudly, “and now that you’re here, we may consecrate the second Night of Burning.”
Thelia showed her teeth in a mad, grimacing smile and took her place at Mooret’s side. Looking into Holly’s eyes, she said, “I am sorry, sister-wife.” Then she started muttering an incantation.
“Now you die,” Mooret told them. “Not at my hands, but as you should, at the hands of the True Matriarch. Burn them! Burn them all!”
“Thelia, no,” Holly said. “This is madness. Think about Dan. Think about—”
As Thelia finished the incantation, she gave Holly a sad smile and reached out to touch Mooret.
And the red elves vanished.
30
Never Threaten a Man’s Family
Dan stood atop the wagon, waiting. Around him, his monster army held its breath. He had never seen them so rapt, never heard them so silent.
A breeze rippled the sea and fluttered the furled sails and flags of Manrose’s ships, the decks of which remained utterly calm. The fucker had an idea what was coming his way.
The Fist vibrated, ready to kill.
Not yet, Dan thought, gripping the handles of the gun. Not yet.
He would give Manrose no warning, no time to prepare any kind of magical interference.
Manrose might have an armada, a mountain of gold, and thirty thousand soldiers, but I am a barbarian, a merciless savage, a predator that knows the value of surprise and speed.
The wind strengthened, rushing loudly across the bay, making Dan squint.
High above, the sky darkened. Black clouds fractured and swirled.
Yes, Zamora. Yes, my love. Call forth your hungry beast.
And then he heard it, heard the nightmare approaching from afar, the long, loud howl of the otherworldly force rushing forth from another dimension to devour all.
Almost time, he thought, holding his foot above the pedal.
Once again, primordial loathing rose in Dan, and his lips peeled back in an involuntary snarl.
All around Dan, his monster army clamored and shook, eyes rolling with panic.
Out on the water, sailors were rushing out onto the decks and pointing into the sky, where glowing blue light veined the swirling darkness.
Howling boomed across the water like the baying of a mad wolf god closing in for the kill.
Now, Dan thought, and stomped on the pedal.
Pang-pang-pang-pang-pang!
The Fist jerked in his grip. The barrels spun, spitting steel.
All around him, his monster army raised a terrible cry of elation—though to Dan, their atavistic cheer was a mere whisper beneath the roaring of the wind and steady pang-pang-pang of the gun.
He worked the Fist back and forth, raking Manrose’s galley just above the waterline. Then, having peppered the hull with holes, he swung the spinning barrels toward other boats.
Pang-pang-pang-pang-pang!
Even now, the sea was stirring, growing choppier as if trembling in anticipation of what was about to happen. Soon, waves would lap the hulls, find the holes, and fill the holds.
But the enemy had noticed Dan. All along the deck of Manrose’s vessel, archers were lining up and stringing their bows.
Dan was just about to swing the Fist back in their direction when the archers jerked into the air, whipped away like so many condemned men yanked skyward by invisible nooses.
All Hades broke loose.
Boats spun and swayed and broke apart. The sea churned, waves thirty feet high smashing ships into one another, and the bay spun like a maelstrom. Water lifted up and away, racing skyward in heavy sheets of reverse rain that obscured the destruction, save for the occasional dark hulk that could be seen indistinctly within the mists, as galleys lifted up and away, disappearing into the howling cyclone of the wind elemental.
Pang-pang-pang-pang!
Dan fired into the swirling mass. He knew he was wasting ammo at this point—the armada was good and truly fucked—but he didn’t give a shit.
Manrose had threatened Dan’s wives.
“Fuck you!” Dan shouted into the raging wind and stomped the pedal again.
Pang-pang-pang-pang-pang-pang!
The misty cyclone of watery destruction darkened into a pitch-black tornado glittering with blue sparks and screaming with otherworldly rage, drawn from its windy dimension on another mission of destruction.
A large galley—Manrose’s galley, Dan realize
d—spun free of the howling funnel, smashed into the rocky shore, and cracked in two like a massive shellfish.
A second later, a tentacle of darkness lashed out, coiled around the broken ship, and whipped its remains back into the swirling, sparking column of roaring, black death. Then, with a cosmic gasp, the unholy tornado whipped away into the sky, sucked back into its terrible dimension.
For a split second, the bay was naught but an empty bowl, a deep, rocky gulch. The ships, the men, even the water itself had been sucked away into oblivion.
Then the sea flooded in. Waves slammed explosively into the shoreline, launching curtains of spray and foam high into the air.
Seconds later, the sea had calmed, and save for the missing armada, it was as if nothing had even happened.
Dan shuddered with adrenaline and emotion.
Then he unsheathed Talon and turned toward his army, who stared at him wide-eyed, only now returning to their feet, so great had been their awe.
“That’s what happens to people who fuck with us!” the Warlord of the Wildervast roared, shaking his three-bladed sword overhead. “Now we race to the fortress and destroy the invaders who wish to fuck our women and kill our sons!”
His monsters roared with red rage, a hellish explosion of inhuman fury that took form and became a blood-soaked chant. “Dan! Dan! Dan! Dan!”
31
Sacrifice
Eagles screeched and beat their massive wings with surprise as Thelia rematerialized atop the windswept walkway. The closest raptor lashed out reflexively, its huge beak snapping shut mere inches from Thelia’s head.
Thelia didn’t even flinch. She did not fear the great birds. She was, after all, the True Matriarch. And the giant eagles, at least, had bent to her will.
Parus stood before her, gripping his sword, just as he had a split second before in the bedchamber of Holly’s parents.
He looked around, clearly bewildered, and his eyes flashed murderously. “What happened, Matriarch?” he said. “Where are we?”
Parus turned his head and realized the truth—or part of the truth, anyway. He was standing at the edge of the eyrie’s apex, five hundred feet in the air, far from the room where he had intended to begin the second Night of Burning.
“The eyrie,” Thelia said.
“What is this, some grey elf trick?” Again, he looked around wildly as if searching for someone to kill.
Thelia shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Parus.”
“I’m not Parus,” he snapped. “I am Mooret, the fiery blade ordained to destroy those who would oppose us. And you are the True Matriarch, who will lead our people to their destiny.”
“Yes,” Thelia said, struggling to keep the sorrow from her voice. “I am the True Matriarch, and I will lead our people to their destiny… which is why I must do this.”
And because Parus trusted her wholly—and Thelia forced herself to think of him as Parus, not Mooret; forced herself to think of him as her dear, lost cousin, despite the pain it caused her—he didn’t understand until it was too late.
With the hand she had used to teleport him to this place with her, Thelia gave her cousin a hard shove.
Parus’s eyes went wide, filling instantaneously with understanding, but his feet had already left the edge. “Why?” he asked, already falling, and then he was gone.
Thelia leaned over the edge and watched him fall. She owed him that much.
Parus did not scream.
He fell in silence, allowing his final word to echo in her mind.
Perhaps Mooret had not wanted to give her the satisfaction of hearing him scream.
Or perhaps, in his final seconds, Parus had returned to himself. Perhaps, he had snapped free of possession, understood what had happened and what was about to happen, and felt relieved. Or perhaps, Parus had fallen in silence so as to avoid disturbing the sweet cousin he had so loved.
That was certainly something Parus would have done.
Yes, that’s how I will remember him.
Then Parus slammed into the courtyard far, far below.
And Thelia felt a change come over her, as if a fiery, invisible fist that had been squeezing her in its maddening grasp finally released her.
The arms and armor of Mooret hadn’t just affected Parus. The ancient artifacts had affected the fire. And through the fire, they had affected her and, increasingly, her people.
Thelia hadn’t been under the full spell of the artifacts, as poor Parus had been, but she had burned with a fever that had made her obsessed with spreading the fire, with gathering her people here and helping them rise to glory.
But her idea of glory, even at her most feverish moments, had never matched the twisted fantasies of the artifacts—or those of poor, possessed Parus.
Which had become all too clear when Thelia had approached the room and discovered Parus fighting with Holly and her family.
Thelia wept, welling over with grief and shame.
She grieved for Parus and felt an agony of shame over the way she’d treated Holly.
When Thelia had walked in the room, however, when she had seen Moro and Tatiana upon the floor and Parus about to kill the others, reality had slapped her hard, rocking her out of the fever dream that had been boiling her brains since Parus first donned the arms and armor of Mooret.
These were people she loved.
And in her moment of clarity, thankfully, she had understood what needed to be done.
Parus wouldn’t listen to reason. If she had attempted to talk him out of slaughtering the grey elves, he would have turned on her, just as Mooret had turned on his matriarch. That memory was available to her now. Available and horrifying.
Though not as horrifying as the notion of what had almost come to pass.
Her fires wouldn’t burn Parus, and her spells would do no damage. He couldn’t be beaten in hand-to-hand combat.
Her only weapon, ultimately, had been her cousin’s love for her.
Parus had never suspected her treachery, even after she’d cast the teleport spell. Her heart ached to remember the look of surprise in his eyes as he understood that she had pushed him, and she knew that his final word—why?—would haunt her dreams forevermore.
Unless, she thought, stepping to the edge, I atone. Far below, Parus was a tiny black speck on the paving stones of the courtyard.
I could join him.
It would be such a simple thing. Just a quick step off the ledge and into the void.
Would she scream?
Yes.
Because she lacked Parus’s strength, and besides—there was no one here for Thelia to protect now, no one who would be alarmed or later haunted by her screams of terror as she hurtled toward death.
To Holly and her family, those screams would be sweet music.
As the pain of that realization pierced her heart, Thelia inched closer to the edge. Giant eagles wheeled around the tower, watching her. The wind was blowing softly out of the west.
Dan was in the west.
Dan.
Thelia had never needed her husband more than she needed him in that moment, and yet she had never feared seeing someone so much as she feared seeing him now.
After all that had happened, after everything that had almost happened, she could never bear to look Dan in the eyes again. Her shame was too great.
But even less could she bear to never see him again.
For Dan was the fire in her heart. Her love for him had never wavered, not even in her most feverish moments.
I can’t do it, she thought, and stepped back from the edge. I need to see Dan again. Even if that means facing his wrath. I must try to make him understand.
Behind her, eagles stamped and rocked back and forth. She could feel their concern for her. One of the larger birds leaned forward tentatively and nuzzled into her.
Thelia stroked his fine, feathered neck, feeling grateful for his comfort.
She released a long, shuddering sigh, wiped the tears from her eyes, and saw a
n incredible sight. A sight so incredible, in fact, that she had to wipe her eyes again to make sure that she wasn’t hallucinating.
Coming down the road out of the southern mountains was a long caravan. Wagons, horses, and hundreds of people—and not just any people.
Her people.
The first wave of red elves were answering her call from afar.
The Homecoming, she thought with a thrill that echoed through the ages, up through an unbroken chain of countless matriarchs. But is the Homecoming even possible now, after what I’ve done?
Yes, the voices within her responded, and there was no dissent. In fact, her own voice had answered along with them. Yes, the Homecoming is still possible. You didn’t stop the Homecoming, you only stopped the second Subjugation.
And a wave of warmth passed through her.
These people will need me, she thought, staring out at the long line of travelers. She imagined their joy in this moment. They had traveled long and far, had sacrificed everything to make this voyage, risked their very lives to return here to their ancestral home and embrace destiny. And now, stretching out before them was the gorgeous land they thought of as Flame Valley.
But they hadn’t just come to see the valley and the fortress. They had come to see her. The True Matriarch.
I will not let them down, she thought. I will receive them. I will lead them. And I will do my best to make amends for what has happened here, not only the terrible things that happened recently but also the unspeakable things that occurred thousands of years ago, during the Night of Burning.
She would do her best to bring everyone together and make this place Freedom Valley.
These new elves will need me. Those who have yet to come will need me. And my elves, the elves of Fire Ridge and the elves of this valley, will need me now more than ever before.
I must help Holly and my sister-wives, if they’ll have me. I am very powerful and growing more powerful with each passing day.
When the Duke of Harrisburg arrives, Dan will need me.
The eagle bobbed his head like a dog beneath Thelia’s arm, reminding her to keep petting him.
