Coming to Power

by T J Marquis

  A cluster of ruined buildings marked the Throne’s crash site. The huge old ship was resting at an odd angle, its nose buried in the ground. Would Rae have been able to get out if it had lost power? The bridge had been up top, and near the ship’s fore. Surely it would have had some means of escape.

  A long run took Dahm and Bahabe down the length of the Throne to where it had dug into the ground. The port side of the ship had bitten into the lower floors of a skyscraper, and though the building had not fallen, its weight seemed to be resting on the Throne precariously.

  Restless undead hobbled toward a figure near the ship. The person’s arms were outstretched, and ten lances of different colored lights burst from her hands, illuminating her face briefly, burning the undead into ash. She fell to one knee, and shadows claimed her as the bright lights faded.

  “Rae!” Dahm called as he sprinted over to assist her. “Are you okay?”

  The Wizardess sounded haggard. “Broken leg, hurts like fire,” she said.

  Dahm put an arm around her, taking most of her weight. She slackened in relief.

  “I can’t believe I let that happen,” she groaned.

  Dahm knew she spoke of the Throne’s fall. He shook his head as he led her away from the wreckage.

  “You couldn’t have known it wouldn’t hold up,” he said. “But the ship is just a thing. You can’t be replaced...

  “You’re right, but…” she groaned again with a wave of pain.

  “And you bought everyone time. Jon made it back, he made the ogre general call the retreat.”

  Rae perked up a little at that, eyes opening to regard Dahm. “I knew he’d make it,” she smiled wanly.

  “Let me heal her,” Bahabe said, laying a hand on her, but Rae shook her head adamantly.

  “Save… your strength. Some will be dying. I’ll be alright,” she insisted.

  The sounds of battle continued in the streets all around them as they moved slowly away from immediate danger. Now that this district had been overrun, attackers and defenders both would be driven toward the Keep. Dahm had to keep Rae and Bahabe on the safer side of the Enkannite troops. It was a long walk to the Keep though…

  There was the sound of running as a group of sarathi rushed around a street corner. They were eleven brown-skinned sarathi, with a single silver lady running at the tip of their formation.

  “Grandma!” Bahabe hollered. “Over here!”

  With a whoop the sarathi veered toward her voice, and Sira-heva raised a triumphant fist.

  “Granddaughter!” she cheered. “The medics said you left your post! So we came after you. Is all well?”

  “The Wizardess is injured, but we’re okay,” Bahabe said as the runners came to a stop. “We need to get to the Keep.”

  “Come on then, boys! Let’s get this Wizardess back to her tower!” the elder sarathi cried, and they all wheeled away toward the Keep, dashing into the wind.

  Jon spared no time to celebrate Malok’s call for retreat. Centrifuge was still beset by thousands upon thousands of undead and the remainder of the Nulians who had ignored the order to retreat. Likely there was no one left to press on for the Nulians’ original goal, that of the Keep’s destruction, but the enemy was still too many, too dispersed, for Jon to slay them all.

  He flew over streets filled with the bodies of men, ogres, gremlins, beastmen, and sarathi. Here and there he could see various skirmishes still raging on, with no easy way to bring everyone back into formation. He was at a loss, so he just started hunting down whatever he could see or hear. He would have to keep on going until he could give no more.

  Any Nulian that saw him coming tended to flee with shrieks of fear. None of them desired to confront the white wizard.

  “Retreat!” he ordered them, and as long as they fled to the south, he let them go. The rest met his mageblade.

  On one wide street he met a horde of mindless shamblers. Undead lunged in fits toward him, tripping over the dead and wounded. Dispatching them was trivial - wide arcs of his red-bladed sword cut them down like grass. It was satisfying, cleansing the City of these abominations. He felt no remorse - he was merely an exterminator disposing of vermin. Those he did not strike first began to decay rapidly as they entered the blue aura of his healing staff.

  Just as Jon had finished slaying that horde, he heard the approach of another several hundred shuffling feet from around a corner. The sheer cliff-faces of the old high rises formed a perfect echo chamber, bringing the undead growls and wordless whispers to his ears. They were headed deeper into the City, looking a little more organized than other hordes he’d seen.

  A large figure drove them forward like some twisted shepherd, roaring orders at them in a strange language. It shouted when it saw Jon, standing tall, serpentine neck extending, yellow eyes piercing the shadows.

  Another necrosaur. Absently Jon winced and touched the place where Krak had bitten him. The wounds from Krak’s brothers still ached as well. His body remembered. But he could kill one more.

  The necrosaur broke from its position, and immediately the undead began to wander out of formation, but it paid no heed, stomping toward Jon with those steel-clad foot-stumps.

  It brandished a mighty flail with a densely spiked ball and a heavy chain. The metal had a dark patina and was engraved with arcane, angular symbols. It gave off the faint light of a ghostly mist.

  Ah! A second chance! the creature shrieked in Jon’s mind. He knew he had to be wrong, but Jon thought it sounded like Krak.

  The necrosaur dashed toward Jon, already assaulting his mind.

  We are deathless, it hissed, and will curse you until you die.

  The flail whipped forward, entangling Jon’s mageblade. The necrosaur heaved backward, trying to wrench the sword from Jon’s grip. He didn’t try to resist the pull, instead using the momentum to drive both feet into the foul creature’s barrel chest. He tumbled to the ground. The necrosaur’s snake head tensed to strike as it fell back a few steps. Jon regained his feet, ready to dodge the serpent’s bite, but a lance of pale blue light severed the threat. The serpent detached from the hulking primate body, using a last gasp of breath to screech in defiance.

  Jon heard its demonic voice in his head for a moment, Fool boy, we spit…

  But it was cut off as a second lance cleaved the snake head in two.

  Jon looked up from the carnage to find the undead horde fleeing, uncharacteristically frantic. Despite all he’d seen, it took him a moment to resolve and understand what was there now.

  Mr. Bear, short coat of mohair ruffling in the night breeze, his eternal smile gracing his friendly face. His paws shone with the pale blue light. The bear glanced behind him as a small group of gremlins careened around the corner, saw him, and fled back the way they’d come. Jon wondered what they saw when they looked at the bear.

  “Mr. Bear?” Jon asked. He could think of nothing better.

  The teddy chuckled at Jon’s amazement.

  “Surely you understood when I first came to you that there’s more to me than meets the eye?” the teddy said.

  “Yes but…”

  Mr. Bear waved a paw at him. “Don’t overthink it, just enjoy the help. You’ve done a wonderful job.” It glanced around at the carnage. “Just think of all who would have died without you! And come on, it’s time to clean up the rest.”

  Jon nodded. The bear continually disarmed him, made him feel like a child.

  “Okay, Mr. Bear,” he acquiesced.

  “Good, son,” the bear said with a nod. “You keep heading straight in toward the Keep. Zigzag through the streets a little if you want. I’ll clean up from here outward and circle back in toward you. Remember, we have to get them all, or some people will be in for nasty surprises later! And hey, don’t worry either, all these big guys are gone.” He pointed at Krak’s remains, then fixed Jon with that stitched pink smile for a moment and turned away.

  “Bye Jon!”

  Mr. Bear did not wait for Jon to comply with h
is orders, but charged southward, impossibly swift, into the dispersing crowd of undead that the necrosaur had been driving. They didn’t even try to attack the bear, simply scrambled to escape, as if suddenly their right minds had returned.

  Pale blue light erupted from Mr. Bear’s paws and feet, surrounding him in a cage of orbs and streams identical to Jon’s bloodlight but for its color. Currents of sea-green whirled around the tendrils of blue. The light struck out at the undead in whatever direction the bear gestured, cutting them down and burning them to ash. Jon watched as the bear and his blue light twirled down the street in a fluid dance of righteous destruction. He stood, mesmerized until the bear moved out of sight. Then he turned back toward the center of town to obey his orders.

  The sarathi bore the Wizardess, Dahm, and Bahabe to the Keep safely, to rendezvous with the gradually converging survivors of the battle. Stray mobs of undead had made it this far and assaulted the Keep’s outer wall sloppily, but they were easily kept at bay by the City’s defenders. The only threat they could pose was through their sheer numbers. Not a single living Nulian was to be found. At last, it seemed that the rest of them had retreated.

  The surviving Anekans, Enkannites and sarathi had expected to form up here for a final stand. For good or ill, this is where they’d expected the battle to end.

  Dahm stood atop the Keep’s low ramparts with Rae, whose leg had been splinted and who now bore a crutch. Bahabe had wearily but adamantly joined her grandmother in returning to the mobile infirmaries to see to those most in need of healing.

  “There are still thousands of monsters out there,” Rae said. “Jon can’t possibly have the stamina to destroy them all.”

  “Hey, you’ve posted your lookouts, and everyone alive is safe in the Keep,” Dahm said. “Your riders are out hunting the roaming bands of dead, so Jon’s not alone. Anyway the dead alone cannot breach this fortress, so be of good spirit. Against all odds, your victory is in sight!” he beamed. He put a hand on Rae’s shoulder and melted a little when she placed her hand over his. Dahm laced his fingers in hers and earned a smile he’d been waiting weeks to see.

  Bahabe worried. She hadn’t seen Jon in person since returning to Centrifuge with her kin in tow. He’d done so much today, forcing the ogre general to submit, slaying countless Nulians and undead, more than making up for Enkann’s dearth of defenders. Too much… If he collapsed out there, on his own, something might kill him. After all that, to die while his body paid the price for its exertion… That didn’t seem just.

  No one else seemed eager to go hunt him down, and she knew they wouldn’t let her go. Dahm had said that they needed to stay to help defend the Keep, to trust that Jon would be okay. She was trying.

  If he were still conscious… might it help him to know his friends were okay?

  Bahabe excused herself from the infirmary and walked toward the stairs leading up the ramparts. The Keep’s outer wall was much lower than the City’s main wall, but it still felt like an age getting up to the parapet.

  She’d lost track of the number and kinds of wounds she’d healed today. Every muscle ached, her eyelids drooped, her head was pounding. Was this what it was like being old and sick? She never wanted to find out.

  Atop the parapet at last, Bahabe sat down heavily. Soldiers nearby watched her, curious, but did not question. By now she, too, was a legend among the ranks of defenders.

  She wove the light in her mind first, then raised her hands to release it as if it were a bird she’d nursed back to health. The green gold of one of her light prisms shifted and expanded into shape, blossoming ever larger.

  Bahabe sent the prism up into the sky, pushing it as high as she thought she could. She made it pulse like a heartbeat, a beacon to tell Jon that she was there, that she was okay. She hoped he would see it.

  Jon did. He had just cleared a street packed with listless undead, and stood hunched over, hands on his knees, still strong, but winded from exertion. He craned his neck to check the position of the moon, but the night sky was still washed out by the smoke of fires crawling up every building in sight. Then he saw the corner of a green-gold prism around the side of a building. It was dimming and brightening, expanding and shrinking, like the pulse of a beating heart.

  Of course, he’d been hopeful all these long days, but this confirmation of Bahabe’s safety brought tears to his stinging eyes. He smiled wearily to himself and stood up straight.

  The streets around him were quiet now, though he thought he could hear occasional shrieks as far-off undead were caught and slain. Watching his surroundings for more of them, Jon made his way back to the City’s central highway and started out for the Keep.

  He walked on in a daze for he knew not how long.

  When he arrived he heard the voices of the lookouts as they spotted him, with cries of “Althne!” or “Lord Jon!” Those atop the parapet rushed down to witness the opening of the gate. Horns blew, drums beat, men and women cheered.

  Jon trudged through the gate to claps and shouts, slaps on the back, words of congratulation and thanks.

  Nothing felt better than when Bahabe rushed up to embrace him, nearly bowling him over, wrapping him in an iron grip of affection. He saw Dahm supporting Rae, both of them smiling nearby.

  “I warned you,” Bahabe scolded, weeping hotly and talking into his chest. “Now it’s back to the island for us both.”

  Jon’s guard was lowering, his aura had dimmed. He could no longer hold himself up and was too heavy for Bahabe. Dahm rushed over to take his weight.

  Jon caught a glimpse of the street outside the slowly closing gate. A hundred yards away and receding he saw a bear-shaped apparition limned in blue. He had the distinct impression that his guide had grown much larger, but then the gate closed and Mr. Bear was gone.

  “Jon?” Bahabe asked. She turned his dazed face to hers with one warm hand.

  “It’s ok,” Jon smiled weakly. “Just wake me up if… more come.”

  And his eyes fell closed in something deeper than sleep.

  Chapter 21

  Honored

  He awoke in a dim, sterile room with a single, curtained window. The sliver of light peeking from behind the curtains suggested midday. His bed was narrow and firm, and the only other furniture in the room was a side table and a chair with thin cushions. His immediate thought was, “Hospital?” But there were no monitors, machinery, or posters, and there was hardly any noise.

  Jon pulled aside his blankets and looked down at his body, instinctively scanning his chest, arms, legs. His clothes were fresh - loose bluish cotton shirt and pants - and his skin was clean and soft. He touched his hair and found it washed and bound behind his head. His face, too, had been washed and moisturized, beard oiled lightly.

  Wakefulness came quickly, easily. When he felt the faintest hint of soreness in his muscles, he suddenly remembered everything. It was done.

  He remembered the fighting, the fires, the blood. He was pretty sure all his friends were okay. The Nulian attack had been repelled. Malok, though he had gained some strange new powers, had called the retreat himself.

  “He almost had me,” Jon exclaimed to himself, shaking his head. Over the course of his harried flight across the continent, he’d begun to consider the White Light unbeatable, immeasurable. Perhaps, in its raw form, it was. Bound to a man, though, it seemed no amount of power could compete with well-honed skill and experience. He had pulled a victory out, but only just, and Jeremiah had to step in against the vicious Assassin.

  Still, for now, it was done.

  Jon let out a ‘haaaahh’ and shifted his weight off the small bed. The metal tiles on the floor sent a chill up through his bare feet. Someone had unpacked and organized the things from his travel bag, including his now depleted phone, and left everything out on the side table. His old clothes had been washed and folded, also left on the table. His boots, now well-worn and even singed in places, sat on the floor by the bed. He almost reached for them but changed his mind. Bare
feet felt like freedom.

  Standing, he noticed there was a blanket draped over the lone chair, and a small woven backpack on the floor.

  “Bahabe,” he said. She had been there, hadn’t she? His memories of stumbling up to the Keep were faint, but yes, now he could remember the relief of her embrace. She’d come back, been waiting by his side as he slept the sleep of extreme exertion. How long had he been out this time?

  Was he supposed to lie and rest? Would anyone be around to check on him soon? He decided it didn’t matter. The order and starkness of the little room felt restrictive after all he’d just been through. He wanted to feel his feet in the hot dirt, let his hair loose in the breeze, find his friends, and enjoy this day of victory.

  Assuming nothing else had gone wrong…

  But no, everything seemed quiet, peaceful even. It must all be over.

  Jon opened the door of his room and stepped into the hallway gingerly. The silence was so complete it seemed a crime to make noise. The black-clad guard stationed there was still as a statue, and his slight nod gave Jon a jolt of surprise.

  “Um, everything okay out there?” Jon asked, nodding toward the outside.

  “Yes sir, Lord Jon,” said the man. “I’ve been instructed to escort you to the Wizardess if you awoke. Unfortunately, she’s not yet back from her excursion into the City. I can have food brought for you, or anything else you desire.”

  Jon found that he was famished. It was a good hunger, like that after a serious workout. How long had he been asleep?”

  “I’d love some food,” he said, “but mostly I’d just like to get outside. How many days since the attack?”

  “Eleven days, sir,” the man said. “No further contact with the enemy since then.” He held up a hand to forestall further questions. “I’m sure there’s a lot more you’d know, but I’m not cleared to answer anything further than that, sir.” He looked a little sheepish about that.

  “I understand, soldier,” Jon said magnanimously. He checked the man’s badge. “Thank you, Uryah. Can you show me outside please?”