by Jim Hodgson
“Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go see Ozel.”
There was even more hugging and a few more tears when they found Ozel. For someone who was reportedly shot full of arrows, he looked remarkably good. Aysu hugged him and kissed his face. Her dad coughed at this display, but he was smiling.
“Are they really calling you Ozel the Fierce?” Aysu asked.
Ozel looked pained. “I wish they wouldn’t. I was lucky. The avatar protected me from the poison arrows somehow. I still got shot with the arrows, but the poison didn’t get into me.”
“Has that given us any ideas for a cure?”
Ozel shook his head. “Yonca has been working on it, but she doesn’t seem hopeful. When I tried to talk to her about it …” he shook his head. “Well, I’ve never seen her get emotional like that.”
“What about Wagast?”
“I haven’t seen him. Yonca says he’s hard at work on something. I assume he’s trying to cure those affected by the poison.”
A messenger came to find Ozel. It was afternoon now and the Yetkin appeared to be forming up again. Ozel gave instructions for placement of his remaining magical forces to support the rest of the army. Aysu squeezed his hand and was going to leave him to it, but he grabbed her. The messenger ran off with Ozel’s messages.
Aysu’s dad coughed again and said, “Well, I’m sure the shop needs me.” He smoothed Aysu’s hair, kissed her on the head, and was gone, leaving Ozel and Aysu alone.
Ozel smiled at her. “I just wanted to say, if things get really bad…” he frowned. “Well, if they get really bad, I want to be with you.”
She smiled, squeezed his hand. A tear rolled down her cheek. She was surprised she had any tears left in her after the last few days. “I want to be with you too.”
The Yetkin did indeed form up for another charge on the Dilaran lines, but this particular attack was easily repelled by the defenders.
Ozel’s mages took a heavy toll on the attackers, and since they’d learned that a magical water-based avatar could extinguish the poison nature of the Yetkin arrows, the ranged attacks that had been devastating to the Dilaran line were now held in check thanks to some new magical shield techniques. A cheer went up among the defenders, but Usta didn’t seem impressed. Neither did Alabora nor Nazenin.
“That has to feel good,” Ozel prompted. “We kicked that attack away in just a few minutes.”
Usta shook his head. “Only one reason to send a small attack like that one.”
“What’s that?”
“They want to look busy. Their master is approaching.”
Chapter 45
The mage known as Lord Yordam came on an enormous black horse. The evil son of a bitch sure knew how to pick his moment, Ozel thought. The sun was going down behind him, outlining him in fiery reds and oranges. A few unfortunate defenders assumed that a leader on the battlefield by himself must be seeking some form of discussion and so walked out to find out whom they should fetch for the meeting. They paid for it with their lives. Lord Yordam beheaded all three men with a flick of his finger and took no notice as their bodies toppled in a spray of blood.
A shout of outrage erupted from the Dilarans, followed by a torrent of arrows and magical attacks. Yordam turned his horse toward one end of the defenders’ lines and began single-handedly to destroy them with fire and lightning attacks faster than anything Ozel imagined possible. He watched, slack-jawed, as Yordam wielded an ocean of magical energy as if it were a trickle from a waterskin.
Defenders, seeing that there was nothing they could do other than die where they stood, broke rank and ran from the mage, all except for a single figure in light robes, walking with the help of a staff. Wagast began to cast with every bit the ferocity of the darker wizard, meeting his attacks blow for blow and drawing Yordam’s attention away from the slaughter.
“Wagast?” Ozel asked. “He looks hurt!” He lunged to help the old mage, even though the two wizards were using magic at a level a generation or two beyond anything he could manage.
Someone grabbed him. He turned to see Yonca holding him, tears in her eyes. “No,” she said. “We can’t be close.”
“What do you mean we can’t be—” Ozel began. And then the realization of what Wagast was doing struck him. He tried to draw breath but it stuck in his throat somehow, and he staggered a little, staring at Yonca’s face. She looked like the most ancient lost soul in the world, and Ozel felt worse than that.
“No,” he said. He shook his head. “He can’t.”
She nodded. When she spoke, her voice was twisted by her emotion. It was almost an apology. “He can.”
The battle between Wagast the Wise and Lord Yordam of the Yetkin was a terrifying thing to witness, yet no one watching that day could tear their eyes from it. Those with no magical training whatsoever were just as amazed as those who had some understanding of what was going on.
The combatants couldn’t have been more different. Yordam fought with a cunning and intensity that could only come from years of single-minded devotion. He was a sword strike, a thrown spear, the tip of an arrow. Wagast was slower, more deliberate, but his magic was more solid by far. He was the stone in the riverbed, the land beneath your feet. Though Yordam was faster and more aggressive in his attacks, Wagast’s defenses had a tendency to linger longer, which meant he flowed from defensive movement to defensive movement seamlessly. But Yordam didn’t seem rattled. He merely scaled up the power of his attacks and added complications to them, like adding extra heads to a deadly snake. As the generations of attacks and the complexity of the defenses rose, the battle climbed to the point where both mages were inventing and then implementing magic that had never been used before — with split-second precision.
Ozel couldn’t believe his eyes. Wagast had been his master, a father figure, and a friend all his life. He’d known that his old master was the greatest wizard in Dilara. One does not get a title like “the Wise,” without some study. And Ozel also knew that Wagast held a great deal of his knowledge in reserve. He would never have shown the depths of his magical ability in any circumstances other than dire ones. But here, in the very most dire of all, to see Wagast completely unleashed … Ozel felt his mouth hanging open. He watched as something erupted from Wagast that looked like a latticework of electrical fire with flashing green gems at the intersections. Then the ground before him rolled like a wave toward the shore, threatening to topple him. Wagast, with the merest dip of his elbow, smoothed the earth and went right on casting. Either of those spells, Ozel thought, would necessitate a lifetime of study to understand, let alone cast, and here we’ve just seen them tossed out like old hats.
This combination of magic caused Yordam’s horse to rear. Ozel hoped he’d fall off the animal and break his neck, but that didn’t happen. The horse was spooked beyond help, though. Yordam leaped free of the animal without taking his eyes off Wagast and landed on his feet as if he’d intended to dismount anyway. The horse galloped away, eyes white with fear. The two mages fought on.
The worst part of the battle was the realization nagging at the back of Ozel’s mind that, yes, his master was unquestionably the greatest wizard ever to walk the verdant fields of Dilara. But Yordam was just that tiny bit better. Perhaps it was because of their difference in age. Or perhaps it was because Yordam had never had any proper education, so his magic had never been restrained. It was wild in its anger, never self-conscious or questioning. It was like the rage of a drunk. It didn’t care if it was right, it only wanted to destroy. Yordam must be realizing it too. Ozel thought he could see a smirk on the enemy’s face. He lunged again to help his old master, but Yonca grabbed him as before. This time she wrapped her arms around Ozel’s body and held him, but when Ozel looked down, the arms around him were Aysu’s.
Her face was streaked with tears, of course, like everyone’s. “No,” she said. She shook her head. “You can’t go. You know why you can’t go.”
There was a crack of thunder on the batt
lefield and Ozel turned. He screamed. Wagast was down. He was moving, but he’d been felled. The older wizard struggled to get to his feet as Yordam walked toward him, the dark wizard’s pale face split by a triumphant smile as the sun’s last rays shone.
Ozel knew that he was about to watch his master die. He wanted to sob and scream and run onto the battlefield. There was nothing he could do against Yordam, but at least Wagast wouldn’t have to be alone.
Yordam was raising his hand now, taking his time so that Wagast could see the end coming. The dark wizard was close to Wagast. Not standing over him, but close. Yordam began to speak, casting some complicated spell he held in reserve for just such a moment. Ozel looked to Wagast, hoping to catch his eye. Perhaps he could send some care toward him across the battlefield. To Ozel’s surprise, however, Wagast was not crying, or begging. He was smiling.
And then, in a streak of power, Wagast the Wise launched himself magically, like a missile, toward Lord Yordam. Yordam didn’t even have time to wipe the smile off his face before Wagast hit him and exploded. The boom was deafening. It threw dirt and rocks high into the air, and the wave of pressure threw attackers and defenders alike to the ground. When the dust and smoke cleared, both wizards had vanished. There was a perfectly round impression left behind in the ground, like a giant serving bowl, and bits of clothing twisting in the air, but Wagast and Yordam were gone.
Behind him, Ozel could hear Yonca crying. Ozel felt his eyes stinging too, but for some horrible reason he also wanted to shout with admiration. Wagast had figured out how the undead wizard Cezmi had exploded himself years ago, which meant, in the end, he’d used Yordam’s own magic against him.
What a very Wagast thing to do, Ozel thought.
The Yetkin horde, apparently, were not troubled by any sentimentality about their leader’s demise. They looked to be forming up again, and there were still at least two Yetkin for each Dilaran. They’d been attacking Ilbez long before Yordam came along. They might have lost their leader on the battlefield, but that didn’t mean they would stop attacking. Even now he could see the Yetkin mages yelling and shoving their men into line. He could also see that more Yetkin appeared to be arriving from the direction of the tunnel every minute.
Ozel put his arms around Aysu and they held one another.
“We stick together,” he said.
She nodded up at him. “To the end.”
Chapter 46
A man awoke, floating on some sea, without any shred of knowledge or feeling. He only knew he was on some ocean because he could feel the undulation of his body. He might have wondered if this was the afterlife, except he’d already died once and knew there was no such thing.
The undulation stopped and there was darkness. Then he was laid upon a flat surface of some kind that was cold underneath him. He moved his hand and there was a clanking sound, and gasps. The sound of shuffling. Running, maybe.
Voices were making sounds. He remembered that voices could make sounds that could be understood, so he listened. The voices spoke excitedly, using words like “savior,” and “king,” and “sword.” Except they spoke in some bizarre tongue. He could understand it, but it still sounded bizarre. Then again, he’d always been good with languages.
Wait. Who had always been good?
The man who had been known as Ergam moved his head, stirred. There were gasps again. He could see now, a little. There were bodies, looking at him.
“Can you hear me, Lord Ergam?”
“No lord,” he replied. The words felt awkward to say, even though he knew they were the right ones. What were these shapes looking at him? People? Hill people? That seemed right.
There was another voice that crackled in his mind. “Wake,” it said. “We go to save Dilara.” He knew that the voice had no sound. It simply was.
The word “Dilara,” sounded familiar. Then he felt a pang of guilt and dismay. No, he couldn’t save his friends. They were beyond help.
The crackling voice sizzled once more. “No one alive is beyond our help.”
One of the shapes said, “The prophecy has come true. The savior of our people is among us. We must prepare for war!”
There was a cheer and great clamor as all the bodies ran in every direction.
War? Ergam thought. But I’ve been blown to bits. He looked down at his body. It was intact, but his bones were crazed with black scorch marks. In his right hand he was holding a sword that had a peculiar tinge to it. It had no proper guard, hilt, or pommel. It was only a blank. But Ergam felt a window open in his mind through which he could see that if he swung this sword in just the right way he might be able to collapse the cave — he could destroy almost anything.
“Yes,” the crackling voice said in his head. “Rise, Ergam. Rise now. We go to war.”
Ergam rose. There were gasps and screams all about as shapes moved in fear, but he paid them no heed. He dashed out of the cave, leaping over cook fires and boulders as he went. The sword sung in his hand and he felt a thrill run up his arm to the rest of his body. His mind and the sword’s will, which was the will of lightning, had fused. They were bent to a single purpose and the combination felt terrible and joyful at the same time.
Chapter 47
The battle with the Yetkin that night was of a different flavor. The beasts seemed to be less organized, but angrier. Ozel wouldn’t necessarily have attributed something like sentimentality to the Yetkin before, but they did seem to have redoubled their efforts since losing Lord Yordam. The Yetkin mages seemed to bear the brunt of the loss in focus. They could still cast, but their shots often went wild, and the magically poisoned missiles that had lit up the battlefield like angry green sparks in the dark were now just regular arrows. But the rage of the sword- and axe-wielding Yetkin, plus the influx of fresh reinforcements, meant that the defenders were giving up ground.
The call came to retreat to the city walls. Ozel and his mages closed ranks and covered the withdrawal, using their better ranged attacks to keep the Yetkin at bay until the remaining Dilaran defenders could drag themselves through the city gates.
Ozel and Aysu went up on the wall with Alabora and Nazenin. Usta had gone to check on Elgin.
In the fields outside Dilara, lights danced as the Yetkin lit cook fires and carried torches. They seemed to be celebrating. In the distance there was a flashing magic of some kind Ozel hadn’t seen before.
“The throwers,” Aysu said, glaring mournfully toward the horizon. “Giants. The mages shock them to keep them moving forward. When they’re in range of the city, they’ll throw fireballs in.”
“Like the mechanical throwers?” Ozel asked.
Aysu shrugged.
“Yes,” said Alabora. “But bigger.”
“And alive,” Nazenin said. She told Ozel about the extramortal raid. Sounding impressed, she squinted at the distant flashes. “However, it looks like they reduced their numbers by a lot.”
“One will be enough,” Aysu said.
Ozel and Aysu climbed down from the wall and walked, hand-in-hand, through the city. Here was the inn where they’d cornered Bartu Hamdi those years ago. Here was Aysu’s blacksmith shop.
“Remember how big this shop looked when we were kids?” he asked.
She smiled, running her hands over the top of one of the anvils. It had chalk marks on it from some previous project someone had laid out. “I wonder what my father’s shop in Bilgehan would look like to us now?”
Ozel laughed. “Or Wagast’s old tower?”
She put her hand back in his and they walked some more. “I remember when I saw you on the road, going on your first quest. I have never seen anyone look so determined.” She thought a moment. “You looked the way I felt. I liked that so much.”
“I remember you kissed me,” Ozel said. “I believe I have remembered it every day since.”
Aysu put her head back and laughed. They were both filthy from days of fighting and flight, but she was still beautiful.
They wound their way
to Ozel’s enchantment shop. Ozel was a little surprised to find that it hadn’t been kicked in and raided for the weapons and armor inside. “The new city watch must really be doing their job,” he remarked.
“Or all the criminally minded have been fighting for their lives alongside the lawful,” Aysu observed.
Ozel acknowledged the wisdom of this. He’d considered a few times emptying his shop of enchanted weapons and armor, and distributing them among the defenders of Dilara, but since many of them were commissions they weren’t his to give away. Now that it was clear the city would most likely be burned to the ground and then wiped off the land by next sundown, it didn’t seem to matter much. He and Aysu carried a few of the weapons to Alabora and Nazenin who distributed them to some of their more capable soldiers, and then they returned to the wall. It was a nice night. In the distance, a fire was burning in the ruined husk of one of the magical defense towers near the shore. The yellow light played on the wall and Ozel thought he could see a figure dancing in the glow.
They spent an hour up on the wall, looking out over the horde that would surely overrun the city. There was a clear, bright moon. The air even smelled sweet, blowing down from the mountains to the north where Calan lay, carrying the stench of war and burning out to sea.
The wall was bristling with archers and Ozel’s mages. He hoped they’d all found a bite to eat and a little water to quench their thirst. They looked like he felt; tired, but also realizing this was no time to rest. Rest would come later.
The final attack on Dilara began with what seemed like random arrows being fired out of the dark. But soon, the solitary arrows here and there became a storm. Ozel’s mages were up to the challenge and shielded the defenders from the brunt of the volley, but when the Yetkin began charging the wall with hastily-made ladders, the defenders had to split their time between shielding and sending magic to meet the attackers.
