by Logan Knight
We were ready when the two men hiding behind the door burst into the hallway. Alena buried her blade into the first guard’s shoulder, but her sword got stuck in his armor. When he fell, her weapon was ripped from her hand.
She ducked to avoid the second guard’s swing, but I had already blocked it. He was too close to stab, so I charged forward, drove my shoulder into his chest, and slammed him against the doorframe.
He raised his sword to strike me with its pommel, so I grabbed his wrist and beat it against the wall until I knocked his weapon from his hand. I grabbed his neck, squeezed as hard as I could, leaned back, and drove my blade through his open mouth and out the top of his head. Hot blood poured over my arm.
The sprites found us a second later. They looked utterly disappointed. One of the sprites hovered near the first guard’s face and poked him in the nose with her sword. Her bottom lip quivered, and she looked like she was about to burst into tears.
“What happened?” I asked. “Did your guard get away?”
“No,” Silverwind said sadly. “He is very dead. But we didn’t get to help with these.”
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “You can help with the next ones. I’m sure there’s plenty left, but for now, we need to keep moving. The longer we wait, the more time our enemy has to set up their defenses.”
“I’m right behind you,” Alena said.
“As are we,” Silverwind agreed.
We continued down the hallway and stopped at the corner where it turned to the right. Though my sword wasn’t as finely polished as I would have preferred, it made for a decent mirror, so I used it to peek around the corner. There were no guards in sight, but there was another staircase going down.
“Be careful,” I whispered to Silverwind. “The last stairs we tried to go down had archers guarding the hallway. They shot at us, and there was no way to get past them.”
“I could go down and take a peek,” one of the sprites said, waving her hand frantically. “I’m fast. There’s no way they could shoot me.”
“Do it,” I said. “Then come back and tell us what you see.”
The sprite rocketed down the hallway, swerving and corkscrewing to avoid any potential incoming arrows. She returned even faster as several of them struck the stairs near where she’d been flying.
“Definitely archers,” she said, breathing heavily. “But they suck. I wasn’t even flying that fast, and they couldn’t hit me.”
“It’s because you’re small,” another sprite said. “You’re tiny, even for one of us. You’re a miniature sprite.”
“I am not!” the female sprite retorted. “You’re no bigger than an orc-booger, and you’re just as ugly as one, too!”
Both sprites roared, their voices rising to high-pitched squeaks, and began to fight. They swirled and clashed in the air with tooth and claw. Neither drew their swords, though. It was a fight, not a duel.
The rest of the sprites ignored them. Instead, their eyes flitted back and forth between Silverwind and me.
“We need to disable the archers,” I said. “Once we do that, we’ll be able to close with them. I need you to send three or four of your people down there to set their bowstrings on fire.”
Those who weren’t currently engaged in battle giggled and raised their hands, volunteering for the task. Silverwind picked four and sent them down. The rest looked thoroughly disappointed.
A few seconds later, guards began cursing as their bowstrings popped. A second after that, the four returned looking completely satisfied with themselves.
“Did you see the ugly one’s face?” one asked.
“Yes,” another said, “it was priceless!”
“Let’s go,” I said.
We charged down the staircase, a sword-wielding force of mismatched warriors. We were on a mission, and we would not turn away.
The guards had already dropped their bows and appeared to be astonished by the ferocity of our charge. To their credit, they recovered and formed a defensive line, standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, swords forward, as we surged the fifteen yards toward them.
A magical arrow to one of their heads ruined their formation.
The three remaining guards recovered quickly and attempted to reorganize their line, but it was too late. When the enemy on the left sprouted a dozen or more little fires, including one that began turning his beard to ash, he began to scream.
I struck my opponent’s sword twice more before stomping his foot. It distracted him long enough for me to slide my blade along the side of his neck, opening a long, deep wound. Blood sprayed in huge gouts, painting the gray wall red.
Alena was holding her opponent’s sword hand, but he didn’t look like he was fighting anymore. She revealed what had happened a second later when she took a step backward. As she pulled her blade from her opponent’s belly, his guts fell out with a loud, heavy splash.
The guard the sprites had set on fire thrashed as he tried to extinguish the flames and fend-off the needle-like blades of his attackers.
The mean little creatures were eviscerating him. He’d already lost an ear and the end of his nose. As I watched, he lost two fingers on his sword hand and dropped his blade. Then a sprite landed on his face and yanked his eyelid open as another slid its blade into his pupil. His screams were horrific, and I almost pitied him. Almost.
I wasn’t sure if he fell because he’d died, or if he’d fainted from the pain. Either way, the sprites didn’t stop until they were sure he was dead.
Three guards stepped out of the hallway behind us. “Ru'Hijan!” one bellowed as they charged.
The way he’d spoken the word made it clear it was the name of his god—probably the same one the priest sacrificed prisoners to.
I fired a magic arrow at the man who’d bellowed the name, but he blocked it, so I fired two more. He managed to block the first, but the second bit deeply into his shoulder at the joint, which caused him to scream and fall to his knees. He dropped his sword and reached for the wound.
His comrades skidded to a stop, but it was too late. Alena and I were already returning the charge while the sprites pricked and sliced their ears, noses, and eyes like a tornado of broken glass. The men didn’t stand a chance, and we ended them quickly.
“Surrender now,” the last guard croaked, “and I promise you a quick death.”
“That’s a promise you can’t keep,” I snarled. “I’ve seen what your priest does to prisoners. I’ve heard their screams. I know that if you kill me, you’ll be sacrificed in my place.”
“That debt has already been paid, Dahani,” the guard said as he shuddered against the pain in his shoulder.
He opened his mouth and inhaled to say something else, but I never heard it. A moment later, his head rolled to the side while his body fell forward.
With no other enemies in sight, I took a moment to pause and listen to my surroundings. It was quiet, so I checked myself. I felt no pain, had no obvious injuries, and was surprised I didn’t feel ill. Casting spells must be like swinging a sword. The more you do it, the easier it becomes.
I sent two sprites ahead of us as pickets to warn us of ambushes or traps. It was then I realized my surroundings were beginning to feel familiar. At first, I wondered if we’d managed to walk in a circle, but then I realized what it was. We were nearing the prison cells Alena and I had once occupied.
When we walked through the doorway, it all came back to me. The wood from my cell’s door had been removed, but the door itself hadn’t been replaced. The other cells were empty—I’d freed the prisoners during our escape.
“This would have been the last thing I would have ever seen,” Alena said. She sounded sad and tired. “They were going to sacrifice me just because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. But you saved me, Reese. You saved my life.”
“It’s quiet here,” Silverwind noted. “Have they abandoned the lower levels? Have they fled?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think they’re run
ning out of people. There’s probably a squad protecting the priest, but if so, that might be all the guards they have left.”
We continued forward and found another staircase going down. After the two sprites in front said the coast was clear, we descended. It led to a short passage—maybe ten yards long—and ended at an ornate, wooden door.
There was a metal lock, but I decided to save my magic for what I was certain would be a tough battle ahead. I pulled the key that I’d taken from a dead guard the last time I was in the fortress out of my pocket. It worked.
I opened the door with the tip of my sword. The room was well furnished. It was lit by torches and candles scattered among tables and in sconces along the walls.
It was only about ten yards long and almost as wide, but its occupant had managed to squeeze a lot of stuff into the small space.
In the center of the room was a desk illuminated by three tall candles. Behind it stood the priest. He looked frightened but determined.
At the back of the room, on an ornate, brass frame, sat the gold-clad box I’d also been looking for. In the light of the candles and torches, it resembled a coffin. As I stepped into the room, I wondered if I could fit the priest inside of it.
10
We’d fought our way out of the prison, only to fight our way back in. The priest wouldn’t let us go, and he sent dozens of guards after us. They’d been able to track us—knowing exactly where we were—but only at night.
Two steps into the priest’s private room, he shouted, “Sigil Ianum!” It was a spell I wasn’t familiar with, but when the door slammed shut behind me, it was obvious what it was for.
“You should have surrendered when you had the opportunity,” the goateed man sneered. “Your death will not be quick, and now it will mean nothing. Instead of being a glorious tribute to Ru'Hijan, your last breath will be a tribute to your own ignorance and absurdity. Expect no mercy.”
“You should expect the same,” I said. “And thank you for closing the door. I appreciate not being interrupted.”
His look of shock made it clear he hadn’t expected my response. Some of his bravado and arrogance fell from his face like dried mud.
The priest stepped out from behind his desk and squared his shoulders to me. He was still wearing the robes I’d seen him in the first time we met, but now he was also wearing a leather belt that was loaded with items. Various pouches hung from it, along with a short, sheathed dagger, and a curved sword in an ornate scabbard. The weapon was the kind of blade meant for slashing, rather than stabbing—a scimitar. It looked like he’d been ready to run but had changed his mind and decided to hide instead.
“It’s not too late for you to surrender,” the priest said, suddenly sounding magnanimous and diplomatic. “I can promise you a swift death, but one way or another, you will die today. You cannot stop the Xorian empire. We have the advantage. I control powers you cannot even comprehend.”
“I understand you have something imprisoned in that box back there,” I said, nodding to the object behind him. “That’s where you get your power from.”
The priest smiled. “You are very perceptive,” he said. “However, that’s not the source of my power. What’s in that box is nothing more than a tool. Much like a hammer, it provides me a way of building my small portion of the Xorian empire. It also helps me recover any criminals who attempt to escape.”
“Criminals?” I asked as I took a step forward.
All who oppose the Xorian empire are criminals and heretics,” the priest snarled. “It is my job to cleanse the world of any who are brought within these walls. All will bow before Ru’Hijan or die.”
“Where I come from,” I said, “that’s called fanaticism.”
“We are not at where you are from,” he said.
We stared, each man waiting for the other to attack, and I became aware of noises from behind me. It sounded like one large sword and dozens of tiny ones doing their best to burrow their way through the door. This fight was mine, though, and I intended to end it before they got through.
I lunged forward with my sword raised. The priest drew his blade, and I was momentarily caught off guard by the light and heat coming from it.
Red and blue flames licked its curved edge. When our weapons met, sparks lit the air between us, illuminating the goateed man’s snarl. He must’ve thought I was intimidated based on whatever expression I had on my face, but it wasn’t intimidation. I really wanted his sword.
I pressed my blade down on his with both hands, but I knew I couldn’t stand there forever. One of us would tire, and there was no reason to make the fight clean.
Reaching into the heat of magic within my mind, I touched the source and felt a burst of energy flow through my veins.
Even though it was hot in the room, I felt gooseflesh rise on my arms. The Messenger of Death was urging me forward, driving me with his lust and power. I was happy to oblige.
I created three arrows at once and sent them at my opponent’s face. The priest disengaged and blocked them, stumbling backward in the process. He crashed into the stand holding the gold box in place and gasped as it teetered, threatening to fall on top of him.
Taking advantage of his stumble, I advanced forward but paused as the priest raised his hand toward me. I raised mine too, more out of instinct than anything else. A split-second later, he screamed “Partum Flam!!” and a fireball erupted from his palm.
When it struck me, I felt no pain. The magical fire didn’t consume me. It didn’t knock me off my feet. Instead, I felt the silvery tattoo on my palm tingle, and the fireball vanished.
The priest’s attack energized me, and I laughed as I realized what had happened. I had absorbed his spell. Also, I suddenly knew how to cast it.
The snarl the priest had been wearing melted from his face. He took a step back and glanced around the room like he was looking for a way out. He raised his sword like he was ready for more, but I noticed the blade’s point was shaking. He was scared.
I raised my hand and launched a fireball at him. At the same time, he raised his and created a stream of ice shards. When the two magics collided, an explosive blast knocked both of us back a few steps.
The steam cleared a few seconds later and revealed most of the torches and all the candles had gone dark. Those flames that had survived only managed to cast a feeble light on their surroundings.
When the priest had his hand raised in my direction, ready to cast another spell, I raised my own. He hesitated, then lowered his hand.
“What’s the matter?” I taunted. “Afraid I’ll capture that spell, too?”
He looked like he could see his world coming to an end. It was as if I were the Messenger of Death himself, and though he knew there was no escaping the grave, he was desperately trying to.
He raised his hand and fired a magical arrow at me, which I easily blocked with my sword.
I charged the priest, stabbing forward with my blade. He deflected the blow and retaliated, aiming for my hand. It was clumsy, slow, and looked like a feint, so I disengaged, took a step back, and slashed at him again.
The priest raised his sword, closing his eyes, and I realized what was happening. He wasn’t used to his weapon. It didn’t look like he was used to any weapon. He was an administrator and a mage—not a warrior.
It was difficult to take him seriously after that. “You should’ve run,” I scolded as I blocked a hard, horizontal strike. “You can’t defeat me!”
“I will prevail!” he insisted as he attempted to stab me in the belly.
I knocked his flaming blade to the side but felt it singe my skin. I’d allowed it to get too close. I hit it a second time and almost knocked it from his grip. He gasped and backed completely into the corner.
“I’ve never heard of your god,” I said as I kicked him hard in his knee.
The priest wailed but didn’t go down. Instead, he charged me and stabbed at my guts. I parried his flaming blade, keeping it far enough away not to burn me
, and answered with a punch to his mouth.
He staggered and fell against the golden box again. Something inside stirred. When he glanced at it, I slashed at his leg, his neck, his belly, and back to his leg, slowly working him away from the box and back to the corner of the room.
He fought viciously, blocking my slashes with a strength I wouldn’t have guessed he had. His face was a contorted knot of concentration, urgency, and panic.
The next time I slashed at his throat, I lowered my left hand and fired an arrow into his thigh. Instead of crying out in pain and dropping his sword like I’d expected, I found myself sliding across the floor on my feet—shoved away from the priest by an unseen force.
I regained my footing and noticed a sudden change in the priest’s demeanor. His expression was serene, and his stance was relaxed. He looked at his leg and slowly pulled the arrow free. I could hear the barbs tearing through his flesh, but if he felt any pain, he didn’t show it.
When he raised his gaze to me, I found myself frozen in fascination. His cheeks looked hollow as though he’d gone many days without eating. His eyeballs appeared to be shriveling, and a few seconds later, they fell to the floor with soft, wet thuds. The sockets they once occupied glowed with an eerie blue light.
“You cannot win,” the priest hissed. It sounded like two voices speaking the words at the same time.
“Bullshit,” I said and charged.
I raised my sword just in time to deflect a long spike of ice aimed at my face. Small shards punctured the skin on my forehead, cheeks, and neck. I slashed hard but only found air before I crashed into the wall.
At that moment, the door to the room collapsed, and thirty fairies rushed in. The priest was in the center of the room. He raised a hand and summoned a powerful gust of wind, which threw the sprites through the doorway. They crashed into Alena, and all of them landed hard on the stairs.
I lunged for the priest again, but he shouted “Regio Gelid!” and a thick layer of ice appeared on the floor. I kept my balance, though, and took several slashes at him as I slid past. He blocked them as though we’d practiced the move a thousand times. It was something I knew the priest couldn’t do.
