It didn’t just sicken her, it enraged her.
Glassmen fired back at him with arrows, but Drav Cra warriors gave their lives to protect him, and he continued forward. He’d soon finish what the chekt started and break her army’s front lines.
She returned her attention to Freydis in the distance. But now, she wasn’t alone. Another nasty, pathetic Drav Cra warrior was with her. Sora fantasized about lopping off both their heads. Now was her time to move. But as she planted her foot on the wall, she stopped.
The newcomer was behind her, and he was… sneaking? Crouched and low to the ground, he inched toward Freydis, each hand gripping a glinting blade. It was a familiar posture, one Sora had seen many times before. Her breath got caught in her throat for an instant, then…
The Drav Cra warrior plunged a blade into Freydis’s back, cutting her attacks short. Vines dropped and fell all over the battlefield, crushing her own men. Then, the warrior stabbed a second time, higher, closer to her neck. Even from there, Sora could see the blood.
“Oh, Whit,” Sora said, realizing both who it was and the horrible mistake he’d made. The only chance he had was to kill her instantly. Now, her powerful blood was seeping out all over Whitney’s arm.
Sora felt a familiar tingle within her own blood. She used to think it was Elsewhere, but now, she wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it was like magma shut up in her bones, begging to be released. And this time, she didn’t think she would argue.
Freydis spun on Whitney and slapped him hard. Whitney went down, but Sora didn’t see anything else. She let out a primal roar, sprinted, and leaped down from the wall, landing on the hairy back of a chekt.
She kicked its rider off, and the beast bucked in a frenzied attempt to shake Sora off, too. However, Sora gripped its thick hair and refused. Then, with one hand, she grabbed hold of the reins and slapped them hard. The beast responded by rearing its front legs, then smashing down. It whipped its head to and fro, but somehow, Sora still held on. Then, pressing a hand against its neck, Sora closed her eyes and willed the creature to obey her. She’d never tried anything of the sort, but something within her said it would work.
At once, the chekt calmed.
With her hand still firm, Sora guided it. With all the ferocity in which it attacked Yarrington, it now turned its ire upon the Drav Cra. Two mammoth tusks ducked low and rose, goring Sora’s enemies and sending them soaring through the air. Its giant feet crushed and smashed. Freydis’ army didn’t even know what was happening. Soon, confusion was evident, but it was too late. The dead piled up around her.
She was outside the walls now, exposed and caught within it all, but something was different. She couldn’t see anything but blood and flame. Black blotches moved in front of her, silhouetted against a fire that hadn’t been there before. She didn’t even think about it as she hurled her magic. Fireballs exploded all over the grassy plains. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see her arm wreathed in flame.
With that hand, she shot thin lines of fire. Like arrows, they tore through the horde of painted faces.
Without mercy, she charged. Each step sent Drav Cra warriors to Elsewhere or Skorravik—their supposed resting place—it didn’t matter to her. All she could think about was Whitney knotted in mortal combat with the Arch Warlock of the Drav Cra—Nesilia’s chosen champion on this plane.
Sora had seen first-hand what Freydis was capable of. She knew that Whitney could already be dead. But she also counted on Freydis and her twisted sense of humor, her inability to end things quickly. She liked to play, just like her master.
A warlock stopped before her chekt—barely old enough to be in her teens. She drew a blade in a long line between her unformed breasts. Naked and bloody, she raised both hands, palm out, and a mess of vines grew around the chekt’s feet and tripped it.
It fell forward hard, tusks breaking against the hard ground, crushing the child warlock serving Nesilia with her life. Sora was flung off, but she had height and momentum on her side now. She summoned a powerful gale, catching her limbs and clothes, and lifting her above the Drav Cra army.
As she landed close to the foothills where she’d seen Freydis, she heard confused Drav Cra clamoring behind her. She looked back to see Wvenweigard storming toward her on a pathway made of ice, his own men pushed to the side. He slid, blood-covered hands contorting into tight balls, two fingers extended on each. Another sphere of ice careened toward her.
She raised a fist, and a wall of flame formed, melting the projectile before it reached her.
Wvenweigard skidded to a stop in front of her.
“Our Lady offered you everything,” he said. Genuine sadness coated his features. Perhaps a hint of jealousy as he raised bloody hands to attack and shouted, “Everything!”
Sora didn’t have time for Wvenweigard, and she didn’t have time to rest. She cut her hand in a sharp gesture, horizontal with the ground. A blade of fire followed her movements, hitting Wvenweigard square in the chest and throwing him back into the Drav Cra trying to keep up.
Sora used the opportunity to rush toward the foothills where she could now see Whitney and Freydis squaring off. As expected, the Arch Warlock was toying with him. Five meters above the ground, Whitney hovered, due to her foul magic. Freydis swiped her bloody hand to the side, sending Whitney flying toward the jagged face of the lower rock hills.
Sora stretched out her own hand, palm flat and vertical. Another blast of wind sent Whitney onto softer ground, just stopping his head from splitting open on rock.
Freydis whipped around.
“You!” she cried.
Freydis raised her fist high in an upward motion, blood was already streaming across her forearm like a spiderweb. Sharp icicles stabbed through the ground where Sora stood, but Sora easily rolled out of the way. It was as if she could feel them before they struck.
She retaliated with a strike of her own, and the grass around Freydis’ feet grew longer and twisted, holding the Arch Warlock in place, just as the warlock child had done to her chekt. Then, Sora drew her sword and charged.
“You use tools of metal when such power is at your mercy?” Freydis said. “Our Lady said you were the most powerful.”
Freydis clenched her fist, and a droplet of blood splashed the ground. The grass holding her withered upon its touch. She extended her hand to the side, then swung toward Sora. Rocks spewed from the field and slammed against Sora’s shoulder, disrupting her attempt to cleave Freydis’s head.
She took the hit in stride, using its momentum to carry her into a roll. When she stood, she decided to take a page out of Freydis’ book. She looked inward, embracing her power, and the mass of earth beneath Freydis broke free, tossing the warlock backward.
“Now that is strength!” Freydis admired after she hit the ground. “What about this?”
She twirled her hands, and thick vines wrapped Sora’s midsection, forcing her arms to her side. Freydis stood, grinning as she clenched her bloody fingers.
But she made the mistake of thinking that, like her, Sora needed her hands for magic. That she needed anything but her mind. She knew nothing of the raw power that burned within. Sora would have to enlighten her.
She thought of fire, and fire came. It burned away every remnant of the vines, and for the first time, Sora saw terror etched upon Freydis’ face.
“It’s over, Freydis,” Sora said. “You chose the wrong side.”
A loud screech distracted them both as Aquira darted down behind her at Wvenweigard, who had managed to catch up.
“Kill the imposter!” Freydis shouted and pointed toward Whitney, as if unaware that Wvenweigard was under attack. Then, while Sora was still distracted, Freydis darted forward and drove her jagged knife through Sora’s shoulder.
Sora cried out and slammed a fist forward, knocking Freydis back. She pulled the dagger free and tossed it to the ground. She didn’t need to draw on blood any longer, but that molten fire within came roaring back in full force. Sora scream
ed, and a pillar of flames shot up from the ground but dissipated just as quickly as Freydis blocked it with a sheet of ice. Freydis then drove her own fist into Sora’s chest, just below her open wound.
Sora flew back, feeling like her ribcage had compressed into her heart.
Freydis charged forward and struck Sora again. “She said I couldn’t compare! Well, look at us now.”
Sora was hit with a barrage of elemental magic. It all happened so fast she couldn’t even figure out what was happening before she was flat on her back.
“Sora!” Whitney cried out, a reminder of what was at stake.
Sora kicked upward and caught Freydis in the chin just as the warlock was about to mount her for another attack. Then, rising, Sora turned to see Wvenweigard fighting Aquira, flinging spikes of ice and unable to catch her. Now, Whitney had joined in. There was no way he would survive. Freydis may have been using him as a plaything, but Wvenweigard wouldn’t hold back. And neither would the Drav Cra warriors closing in on all of them.
Sora growled, something bestial-sounding that came from deep inside. The darkness crept in on her vision once more, and flames and shadows danced.
“For once,” she said, extending her hand, “that bitch was right.”
Fire poured out of her like a thousand hearths. Like ten thousand suns, it engulfed Freydis, making the fires of Winde Port look like a mere match. The Arch Warlock tried to fight it, conjuring ice and water, but both melted and evaporated as Sora refused to relent. She screamed, unleashing every ounce of rage which had filled her since her earliest memory. She heard the voice of every man, woman, and child calling her knife-ear, telling her she was worthless. She saw the face of every mystic, taunting her within the red tower. Then, she saw Nesilia.
Her roar contorted into a single word. “Move!” she shouted, then hoisted the other hand and raised another pillar of flame beneath Wvenweigard. Whitney jumped back as the fire overtook the warlock.
Sora felt herself growing weary but refused to let up. Somewhere within it, Freydis screamed until all noise other than the roar of flames stopped.
Sora collapsed to her knees.
Whitney rushed to her, Aquira following.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m—Frey—“
“They’re dead,” Whitney said. “Really, really dead. Aquira, you’re up. Fly to the cathedral and give the signal!”
Aquira screeched, nestling against Sora’s side.
Sora nodded. “Go.”
The little wyvern took off into the night sky, and Whitney helped Sora to her feet. A contingent of Drav Cra charged them, ready to avenge their Arch Warlock. Then a terrible scream echoed that definitely didn’t belong to Freydis. Terror and sadness unconsciously clouded Sora’s mind.
The warriors stopped, staring up at Mount Lister in fear. A rumble started in the distance. They turned to flee, but the earth shook, splitting rock. An explosion of light emanated from Mount Lister, and a crack coruscated down it toward them.
“What’s that?” Sora said, weak.
“Hold on!” Whitney shouted.
Suddenly, they were falling.
Caught in a wild landslide, they plummeted. Rocks split off the walls around them, battering them. They slid, but the ride wasn’t smooth at all. Sora felt as if they were going into the very depths of Elsewhere.
XLIV
The Knight
Hold the line!” Torsten screamed as Nesilia’s army crashed against the shields in front of him. He stabbed and thrust Salvation, but every possessed body that fell was immediately replaced by another. Torsten’s ranks gave up ground fast. It actually felt like a tidal wave slamming into them, even with the spiders gone.
It didn’t take long for the shield wall to be compromised either. Dire wolves, which Torsten had now started thinking of strictly as hellhounds—no natural animal left within them—pounded over the formation with no care for their own survival. Grimaurs slashed down from above. Demons body-hopped and attacked from behind before priests could absorb them, and as the number of remaining priests dwindled, that happened more and more often.
Darkness, in conjunction with dirt kicked up from trampling feet, made it impossible to see far. Torsten’s world was reduced to the allies and enemies directly around him. He dodged talons and blades, hacked and slashed. Bodies smashed into him from every direction. There was no room to parry or fight anything one on one.
A hellhound soared over the men and tackled him. Claws ripped off one of his pauldrons before he plunged his sword through its chest. As he went to stand, a host of goblins jumped on him and stabbed away, mostly connecting with armor.
He flung one. Smashed another against a stone wall so hard it left his own shoulder burning with pain. He spun, only to find a black-eyed cultist charging him. The man gripped Torsten’s throat with unnatural strength, and a knife raced toward his head.
Torsten bashed the man’s arm down, freeing his neck. The knife grazed his flesh as he dipped out of the way, grasping the cultist’s robes and hurling him at more possessed. He staggered, rasping, desperate for a fresh breath of air as the stifling dirt swirled around the markets. He needed to get free, but couldn’t.
Even as he tried again, a grimaur dove onto the back of a soldier in front of him, digging in. Torsten swung and de-winged it, but the paralyzing agent in its talons petrified the victim. Shouldering by, Torsten narrowly avoided a slashing sword, then gutted something, the chill of a demon being freed overwhelming his senses. In this murk, he couldn’t even tell if any priests were left down here.
Finally, he managed to fight his way to the edge of the fray.
“Sir Unger, the markets are overrun!” Sir Pimpero Bali yelled.
A hatchet landed in the man’s neck, leaving his head hanging by a strand. His body collapsed.
Torsten swore and huffed to catch his breath.
He started up the slight incline of the Royal Avenue, and he turned to look upon the chaos. There was no order. They’d been overwhelmed on multiple fronts. Archers could no longer help as enemies surged over the walls. Not that they could’ve aimed without risking hitting one of their own, anyway.
We’ve bought as much time as we can, Torsten realized.
All he could do now was have faith that Sora had upheld her end of things, drawing in Nesilia by revealing her presence in dramatic fashion. And that Caleef Mahraveh had held back the waterfront invasion, and somehow managed to capture one of the wianu.
“Retreat!” Torsten screamed. “To Old Yarrington. Retreat!”
Sadly, most couldn’t. The men still fighting across the markets wouldn’t even be able to see which way retreat was. The archers on the walls struggled for their lives. And now it was against more than monsters. Torsten spotted the pale skin and markings of Drav Cra berserkers, charging in from northern Yarrington. They’d broken through as well.
Commanders relayed Torsten’s orders, and those that could retreat did. Nesilia’s quicker monsters broke out of the mob to give chase. Archers posted in the windows of shops and homes along the route let fly.
“C’mon, Sora,” Torsten whispered to himself as he broke into a jog up the hill. “We need you.”
It almost felt fated that Yarrington should be in the hands of the daughter its greatest king had apparently rejected. Was Iam playing a joke all along?
Suddenly, somebody emerged from an alley and tackled Torsten from the side at full force. His knees cracked the stone, but years of battle had honed his reflexes. He twisted as he went down, elbowing back and catching the attacker’s chin. When his torso hit the ground, he’d freed himself enough to duck out of the way of a heavy gauntlet that split the stone pavers beside his head.
Torsten pushed off on his elbow, whipping Salvation in a wide arc with one hand. His assailant jumped back, the quick counter shaving a thin line across the man’s breastplate. Rand stood before him, longsword drawn, blood pouring down his face through a straggly beard not befitting of a Shieldsm
an.
“You coward!” Torsten roared.
“Torsten, you—“
Before Rand could finish the sentence, Torsten was on his feet and rushing him. Rage fueled each swing of his sword, knocking Rand off balance as he did his best to parry. Before he could break Rand’s grip with another strike, the traitor grabbed a retreating conscript and pushed him at Torsten.
“It wasn’t enough for you to get our King killed?” Torsten said, stalking forward. “You had to drive your sword into the throne itself?”
“You don’t understand!” Rand replied, hoarse.
“Lucas was a good man. Everything you never could be!”
Torsten pressed again. His claymore gave him superior reach, and he trounced Rand with raw strength. Clearly, he hadn’t been training. His face and neck were as gaunt as the crazies spending a lifetime in the dungeons.
“I didn’t want to kill him,” Rand said. He blocked, and the force sent him staggering.
“Tell that to the blood on your hands!” Torsten raised his sword, but before he could swing, a hellhound came out of nowhere and bit his arm. Salvation dropped.
Rand recovered and stabbed forward, but Torsten yanked the beast down, and Rand hit it instead. When he released the heavy animal, it dragged Rand with it and pulled the sword from his grip.
Torsten ripped his arm free of the beast’s clenched jaw, a fang stuck in his bare wrist. The momentum sent his fist crashing into the side of Rand’s face. A second left hook sent him flying through the window of a bakery.
Glancing up and down the street, Torsten saw the chaos rushing up the avenue. Spiked logs were lit on fire and were now rolling down, crashing through the enemy ranks. Cavalry at the top prepared for a charge. Under heavy attack by grimaurs, the archers on rooftops fired almost aimlessly.
Torsten bit his lip, then scooped up Salvation.
“Lucas’ parents had a place just like this,” he said. “Now it burns, thanks to your master’s army.”
He moved through the shop’s entry, and Rand jumped at him from behind. His gauntlet cracked against the back of Torsten’s bald head, and he staggered into the counter. Rand quickly clutched Torsten’s blindfold and pulled. Torsten held it, but without two hands couldn’t get a good angle with his sword.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 165
