by Sever Bronny
Sometimes Augum stared up at the stars, wondering if Mrs. Stone had successfully become a Leyan, and if so, how she fared. Had her great battle with Magua begun? Was it over already? He wished he could receive news from Ley.
The rest of the inhabitants of Castle Arinthian, the Ordinaries, were tasked with their own daily regimen of drills, repair work, and the upkeep and maintenance of the castle. Chaska was busy with his duties for the Resistance as well as for his father, who quietly accumulated resources from the forest for a shop. He and Haylee were hardly seen together. When Leera asked Haylee how the two of them were getting along, she merely shrugged her shoulders and refused to elaborate.
Sometime in the middle of that tenday, they began to tinker with the Arinthian artifacts from the vault. Bridget borrowed the ancient book An Arinthian Odyssey, though how she would find the time to read it was beyond Augum. Referencing the compendium, they donned the assorted armors, reading up on their various enchantments. The most powerful items were a core of three: the milk-white armors, enchanted to amplify the Elemental Armor spell; the milk-white steel vambraces that fitted on the forearm, amplifying the Shield spell; and the Arinthian war rings, amplifying the Summon Weapon spell.
“True sword and sorcery,” Leera had muttered with a lopsided grin as she flexed her vambrace-protected forearm, instantly summoning an amplified shield of thickened pond leaves. She quickly followed up by summoning her vibrating watery short sword, which now easily sliced through a thick log.
“Be respectful of these ancient equalizers, Jones,” Jez said, inspecting her own Arinthian war ring, one of seven loaned to the strongest among them.
The rest of the items they explored later. Other than the top end king and queen armors, which no one felt comfortable trying (not even Augum), all would eventually be lent out.
Life became almost routine. Supplies were discretely pilfered from the Legion by Hawthorne or Jez, which carried the benefit of bringing news via a parchment Herald. The Legion’s advance into other kingdoms was slow but relentless, with more and more people being turned into undead warriors. The Lord of the Legion himself was in the field searching for Augum, converting scores into the undead, building his armies. He would leave some alive, telling them that, until Augum surrendered in the flesh, more and more would die. And that was the new Legion mantra. Gone was any hint of the Great Quest, gone were the promises of eternal life, the proclamations, or any semblance thereof … there was only expansion and the hunt for the scion now.
Eventually the Blackhaven Herald ceased to operate, as did the Antioc Herald. News became almost as precious as food as the people’s beloved Solia spiraled into doom. By then, the cities were said to be nothing more than ghost towns. Whispered questions arose: Would there even be a kingdom after this? Even should Sparkstone somehow suffer defeat, would other kingdoms invade wretched Solia out of revenge? And then there was talk of loved ones, spoken in mournful tones. There would come the occasional stifled sob from a room, the sudden embrace of a friend who collapsed in sorrow. And with each sunset came the quiet knowledge they were one day closer to a showdown.
But it was the news of fires, mentioned in passing during a furious morning windstorm on the ninth day of the tenday training, that made a lean and sun-bronzed Augum abruptly raise his head from breakfast.
“Sorry, what was that again, Mrs. Hawthorne?”
The table went quiet, for there was rarely an interruption, let alone from Augum, who of late liked to gauge his thoughts before speaking.
The stained glass windows rattled in a particularly strong gust as Mrs. Hawthorne raised her hawk brows at him before repeating herself.
“A large and uncontrollable forest fire is reported to be decimating swaths of Tiberra. The fire is said to have been started by roaming reavers with their burning swords, and is expected to breach Solia in days.”
Augum glanced about, locking eyes with an equally sun-bronzed and fit Bridget and Leera. Their silent and worried gazes reflected his concern. It had been hot of late, hot and dry, perfect conditions for a forest fire.
Constable Clouds, who had been plagued by a severe cough for some time, raised weary eyes. “Is something the matter, Your Highnesses?”
Augum sat back in his chair. “It’s an old proverb—or maybe a prophecy—from the time of Attyla the Mighty.” The only one he paid attention to. “ ‘When thy fallen can’t be slain, when lion children rise again, when fires burn from east to west, blood of kin can vanquish death.’ ”
“The undead. Dreadnoughts. Fires … the final fight,” Leera clarified, accenting each point by counting on her fingers.
A thoughtful silence befell the room during which Augum’s gaze fell upon the empty queen’s chair once occupied by Mrs. Stone. The time to strike was surely almost upon them. It made his insides tingle with unease.
“That’s just ancient superstition, Stone,” Jez said. “Best you stay focused on that weak Elemental Armor spell of yours.” It was a teasing jest—his Elemental Armor spell was the strongest by far. He had learned it relatively quickly, aided of course by the scion and Centarro. The girls had been left struggling; the 6th degree was no jest, and took much longer to master than the earlier degrees. Except Leera really did have a knack for the Seal spell, once pranking Mrs. Haroun by sealing her in her own room. Her panicked cries quickly drew the attention of the castle. When Hawthorne later marched before the lined-up students, demanding who had dared do such a thing, Leera of course looked on innocently. Luckily for Leera, Hawthorne hadn’t made them cast the spell, for she could have identified Leera through her signature of the incantation, as every warlock left a personal imprint in their work.
Haylee suddenly got up and limped over to the stained glass windows depicting ancient castle scenes. “Everyone, look—”
Heads turned.
“Just a particularly orange sunrise,” Elizabeth said with a shrug while adjusting her fine blond hair. She had been a part of the Resistance meetings for some time now and proved handy at organizing student affairs.
Haylee turned around, sniffing the air. “But do you smell that?”
Eyes squinted as noses began sniffing about the room. Sure enough, Augum smelled something in the air, something like—
“Smoke,” Mr. Haroun declared, standing, serious gaze upon the window. “That is most assuredly smoke.”
“It could be from the kitchens,” Elizabeth replied, frowning at her nails.
Mrs. Haroun snapped her fingers. “Charles! Here.”
Stubby Charles Poorman, Lord Bowlander’s former servant (now the castle’s), gave a light sigh and tromped forth. “Mrs. Haroun.”
“Are the kitchens alight with something? Have they burnt the bread again?”
“I do not believe so, Mrs. Haroun.”
Jengo drifted over to the window. “Unnameables, that really is an apocalyptic sunrise.” He made a nervous chortle. “Our doom approaches.”
Usually Jengo’s hysterics would be promptly silenced by his father. But on this occasion, the man slowly stood and said in a quiet and dry voice, “Perhaps it would be best to look from a vantage point.”
Just then the door burst open, revealing the young man who took turns on the watchtower.
And he was as pale as death.
The Inexorable
Before the young tower watchman could even utter a sound, the room burst into action, with everyone trying to squeeze through the doorway at once, the remainder of the rationed breakfast left unattended. The group sprinted upstairs, quickly catching the attention of the rest of the castle, growing into a throng. They spilled out onto the prince and princess terrace like beans from a torn sack. There, robe whipped fiercely by a raking wind, Jengo grabbed his head. “Gods,” he mouthed, seemingly unable to make a sound. But he was not facing east, where news foretold they should expect the fires to come from. Instead, he faced west, toward the heart of Solia.
Augum placed his own hand on his forehead. The entire western hor
izon was an oily haze of mustard yellow. The air was thick with the pungent scent of wood smoke. And when he glanced east, he saw a distant haze as well.
When fires burn from east to west.
It was happening. It was really happening …
“Once every generation, a momentous event takes place,” said a small but pompous voice. Heads turned to find Cry Slimwealth gazing at the horizon with crossed arms. “Ours is the apocalypse. The end times. The end of all life. Mother always told me this generation would destroy this kingdom.” He shrugged. “And so it has.”
“Shut up, you pimpled maggot,” Olaf sniped.
Heads turned to Mrs. Hawthorne, who would normally correct such behavior immediately. But she only stared uncomprehendingly at the mustard horizon, face haggard with defeat.
Suddenly someone started laughing. It was an uncontrollable, booming laughter from some suppressed place.
“Lord Bowlander, your behavior is unconscionable!” Mrs. Haroun said from within the throng.
People cleared to reveal Bowlander bent double, hand on his stomach, tears of mirth rolling from the corners of his eyes.
“Bowlander!” Jez snapped. “Explain yourself!”
Bowlander’s laughter slowed to a chuckle, finally settling to a conceited smile. His mocking gaze fell upon Bridget. “Guess nobody’s going to have you in the end, are they?”
Bridget suddenly strode forth and slapped Bowlander across the face so hard he stumbled back, stunned. When he recovered, the pompous smirk had slipped from his face. All that remained was the scalding imprint of five fingers.
Bridget’s hand shot to her mouth in disbelief at what she had done.
Bowlander slowly raised his chin, eyes smoldering, while Bridget’s dropped. What happened next was too quick for anyone to react, for Bowlander shoved at the air like an angry viper, hissing, “BAKA!” and sending Bridget flying over the creneled terrace wall, plunging to the ground below.
Everybody screamed and tried to grasp her telekinetically, but it was too late, for she had disappeared beyond the ledge. But while they all ran to the ledge in utter panic, Augum, calculating that it would be too late to try and save her, instead immediately burst with the rapid phrasing of Annocronomus Tempusari, matching each word precisely with the correct thought and gesture.
“Gennisi xanno aetate reversa tempus potam xaeternum veteri momentus mortem.”
The flow of time instantly reversed as the familiar attack of the needling arcane ether began to rip through Augum’s soul. He counted heartbeats as he confidently stepped forward, placing himself in a spot beside the creneled wall where Bridget would go over. He watched the crowd slowly move in reverse as his ghostly self cast the spell backward. He saw Bowlander return backwards from the hall, indicating he had made a run for it, and readied for him too.
At about ten heartbeats, just as Bridget reverse-sailed back over the creneled wall but after the moment Bowlander had shoved her, Augum yanked while shouting, “STOP!” then immediately shot his hand out, snatching Bridget with scion-amplified Telekinesis. At the exact same time, he shot another arm out and yanked. Bowlander, who had already turned to run through the open doors of the terrace hall, had his foot jerked out from underneath him, causing him to fall flat on his face.
The crowd, having no time to process what had just transpired, nonetheless piled on Bowlander, holding him in place, while the rest of them helped Augum telekinetically guide Bridget back to the safety of the terrace.
What followed next were shouted angry denunciations of Bowlander mixed with cheers for Augum. And while Leera hugged Bridget, others clapped Augum on the back, asking him how what they had seen was even possible.
“Just a spell we’ve been working on,” Augum replied sheepishly, trying to keep it secret. “Nothing special.”
“That was hardly ‘nothing special’,” Alyssa said with a questioning smile. “And did you really just perform a dual Telekinesis?”
Augum shrugged, mumbling something about the scion.
Eyes eventually turned toward the rabidly struggling Bowlander. He was breathing quickly, nose flaring. “You’re going to lock me up, then you’re going to all die, and I’ll be left to starve. Is that fair, huh? I am the one wronged. I’ve been repeatedly humiliated by that … that wench!”
Gasps came from the crowd. Bridget only glared with a hot fierceness Augum had not seen in her before.
“How unjust!” Bowlander continued. “How tyrannical!”
But Augum, channeling an uncompromising Mrs. Stone, strode over to him, voice cold as steel. “You will be detained for attempted murder until such time as we can assemble a proper court.”
The words silenced Bowlander like the final nails in a coffin. Yet mutinous revenge reflected on his chiseled face, a face that looked distorted with malice. It was a look Augum had seen before in Robin Scarson. But he no longer feared it.
Mrs. Hawthorne strode to the doors. “Take him to the dungeon.”
“You all deserve to die here,” Bowlander spat through gritted teeth, flashing one more brutal sneer at Bridget. “And you will die!” Then he was taken away by Olaf and Alyssa, with Mrs. Hawthorne following.
Augum ignored the shadows that stalked him beyond the crowd and turned to Bridget, voice soft. “You all right?”
She nodded, but dropped her eyes. “I shouldn’t have slapped him.”
“He had it coming,” Brandon said, withdrawing a red bandana from his pocket. He tied it around his head, smoothing it like precious silk. “Don’t know about you all, but I’m looking forward to a good fight.” He shadow-boxed Bridget a moment, which managed to relax the atmosphere a little. But she remained still, eyes on the doorway. Brandon stopped boxing and wrung his hands, muttering at himself for acting the fool again.
Bridget abruptly glanced over to him, one brow rising as she blurted, “Slept like a log last night. Woke up in the fireplace.” For a moment, even the wind seemed to die. Then everyone burst with laughter. Unlike Bowlander’s, which came from a place of malice, theirs came from indomitable hope. It was desperately-needed laughter that bent people over and had them slapping their knees or leaning on each other in support, faces crimson. Something in the way Bridget had delivered the joke, the deadpan look on her face combined with the fact some loser had just tried to kill her … Interestingly, the shadows had all but disappeared for Augum, perhaps chased away by such pure joy.
Brandon laughed the hardest, reduced to choking wheezes between gasping teary-eyed breaths. Meanwhile, Bridget had a self-satisfied smirk on her face, perhaps the first Augum had ever seen on her. She received a wink from Mr. Goss, who Augum suspected may have already heard the joke as a test.
It took some time for the laughter to die down, during which Bridget offered her hand to Brandon and helped him to his feet. When he got up, she continued to hold his hand, giving the brightest glow to his cheeks. It was a moment that made Augum and Leera exchange warm looks, their own hands entwining.
“Looks like he finally won her over,” Leera muttered.
“Or perhaps the other way around,” Augum replied.
Leera snorted. Then she glanced back at the hazy, mustard horizon. “What now?”
Jez strolled over with arms crossed and playfully bumped Leera’s shoulder. “We finish the day.”
Augum nodded, feeling his spine tighten. “The scion will tune to the castle tonight. I’ll be able to unlock its full offensive and defensive capabilities then.” He had been cramming his studies like a madman.
“Then let us make this day a most worthy one, my little monkeys.” Jez said with bittersweet tones, leaving a certain thought unsaid—for it could be their last.
Wind
They did not finish breakfast. No one was even remotely hungry now. Everyone knew what they had to do and what was at stake. There was no more news to pass on. Besides the scion tuning to the castle, only one other thing remained to be resolved—how to draw the Lord of the Legion to them without him s
uspecting the trap that lay in wait within the castle, a gauntlet of ballistae and traps, at the end of which would be the trained and armored trio. But recent events had given Augum a bold idea. Now he only needed an opportunity to act upon it.
The windy mustard morning, with its heavy scent of burning trees, began like every other—with three hours of degree training. This particular morning they trained on the rope bridges in the enchanted forest below, where the wind was just as strong as above, making the trees creak and the bridges and lanterns sway. The arcane light that seemed to come from everywhere yet nowhere was a diffused early morning light, as if choking on smoke, which for some reason they were able to smell down here stronger than above ground. Perhaps, Augum thought, the forest had sentience and sensed what was coming. Maybe it was afraid and was trying to warn them.
But unlike every other morning, there was no joy to training, no laughter, no giggling … only resolve. Faces were grim with determination, incantations succinct, gestures precise. All presented their very best, some even throwing up from pushing their arcane boundary. Headaches and nausea were prevalent.
Augum, Bridget and Leera were particularly focused, accenting arcane strikes with sharp war cries. Bridget, who had said little since slapping Bowlander and telling a joke, had not relaxed her furrowed brows once since beginning practice. Her vine punches were so strong she nearly knocked Leera off the rope bridge they were sparring on.
Leera, who would usually say something along the lines of “Sheeze, ease up, Bridge,” instead gave her a proud nod.
The trio each still saw shadows. They were ever present, stalking in the background. Every casting of Cron made them last longer. For Augum, they were a reminder of how fragile and precious peace was. He often wondered if he would ever be left alone again.
On a nearby rope bridge, Augum summon-flashed his Elemental Armor with a quick incantation. The lightning suit crackled around his robe. It was one additional layer of protection, hyper-enhanced in strength by the humming scion. When the time came, he would also don Arinthian armor from the vault, which would enhance it even further. Jez did not want them using the Arinthian artifacts much as they would rely on them as a crutch and not push themselves as hard as they should. For now, he practiced prolonging the casting length of the spell, the scion buzzing loudly near his ear.
