“You’re hiding something.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I hear you thinking that visiting me was a bad idea since I could read your thoughts and learn some truth.”
Zaria is about to vanish again when her body refuses to obey her own magic, the goddess sitting on a nearby chair instead. Retaining her smile, the red-haired deity waits for her daughter to find a place to sit. Knocking the basin onto the floor and perching on the dresser, Dariana keeps slipping off because of her billowing dress. With a muttered curse, she tears the skirt off and grabs a towel to tie around her waist. Before she can get comfortable, the dress regenerates and sends her sliding onto a nearby pile of stuffed animals. Remaining among her old and forgotten toys, the telepath glares at her mother and tries to use her powers to goad the goddess into speaking.
“If you refuse to talk then I’ll tell you what has me confused,” Dariana says after running into a mental block. Finding it impossible to look serious while surrounded by cute dragons and kittens, she relaxes and rolls her tongue in her mouth. “From the beginning, I thought we would purify the temples and enter the fight against my father. I did expect some kind of delay, so we could heal and plan, but nothing like this. It’s been so long since we cleansed the Spirit Well that I’m left wondering if there’s information left out of the prophecy. At least the version that my friends and I have been told. Luke being captured and us having to save him was obviously a setback that could not have been planned for. Yet, we recently learned about missing crests, Xan’s portal, champion cores, Nyder’s factory, and physical centers for Gabriel’s curse that must be taken down for the Baron to escape this castle. What exactly are we supposed to be doing here, mother?”
“Follow the path and you will eventually reach the end,” Zaria answers, folding her hands in her lap. Seeing that her vague reply is not enough, the goddess whispers a curse at Gabriel and leans forward. “The champion cores are anomalies and the crests are something that I know nothing about. Perhaps they are a leftover from the previous prophecy and Gabriel tried to write them out of events as best he could. Whatever the case, he has not shared that information. As for Xan’s portal, it was a surprise to all of us. Everything else you mentioned are part of the final leg of your journey. The factory could have been avoided, but that gnome was more ingenious than anyone expected. Does this answer your questions?”
“All except for what you’re hiding,” the telepath states as she picks up an orange dragon doll. She tosses the toy in the air a few times before flipping it into the crib. “I can sense that you’re being evasive even if I can’t read your exact thoughts. This is a part of the prophecy that the champions had to remain ignorant of. Yes, I can hear you know. We’re tearing down the curse sources because we’re the only ones allowed to do it. He lied about him not wanting to bother with them. None of my father’s agents could succeed even if they had the power. The champions are supposed to free the Baron in order to start the final battle. That’s ridiculous and you know it.”
Forcing her daughter’s influence out of her head, Zaria gets to her feet and inspects the heavily nicked sword. “Gabriel and Arthuru share many traits, which includes the desire to humiliate their enemies. The hate between them is incredibly strong and the champions are their tools. Both men want a public fight, but for different reasons. Gabriel wants you to destroy the Baron before all of Windemere while my dear husband wants to kill you in front of those who will be his new followers. This is why there are six seals within Vir’s Castle, which Arthuru found a way to connect to the temples. Three have already been destroyed and three more remain before you can have your final battle. It is very sad. Among all the destinies in history, the champions are the only ones who could be considered true pawns.”
“You are saying that my friends and I are being manipulated not only by Gabriel, but by the Baron as well,” Dariana whispers, her stomach turning into knots. Choking back a yell of rage, the telepath punches the dresser and sends it shattering against the wall. “This goes against everything we were told! We can’t be the tools of both sides when we’ve been fighting to save Windemere this whole time. What is the point of making it this complicated? Are we even supposed to win?”
“Of course you are.”
“It doesn’t feel that way!”
“The Baron must be stopped at all costs.”
“Then Gabriel should not have let him control so much of this stupid game!”
“We couldn’t stop him.”
“Were you too afraid or too in love to do so?”
Shaken by the question, Zaria disappears in a puff of smoke that travels to the shivering doorway. The paint peels off the wood, which rots until it is nothing more than moist chips that fall into the hallway. Staring at the fake clouds, Dariana refuses to move until her brewing rage is under control. Reaching out to her friends, she finds that three of them are nearby and takes comfort in their relaxed mental states. Wiping tears from her cheeks, the telepath forces herself to stand and makes a final search for better clothing. Hidden behind a rocking horse, she finds a drawer built into the wall and takes out what she was wearing in the garden. Nyx’s voice travels down the hallway, so she takes a few minutes to get dressed and decides to wait for the others to find the room.
“This will be our secret, mother,” Dariana says, her heart aching from the sound of distant crying. She tries not to feel sympathy for the goddess, but she cannot block the conflicting emotions that flow into her mind. “We will talk about this another day. My friends do not need to feel like they are anything less than true heroes because that is what they are. I will make sure that the champions win on their terms or Ambervale will have a new immortal monster to be afraid of. I make that promise to all of you.”
*****
Sari wanders a long gallery, the beautiful and morbid paintings no longer holding her attention. The hole that the gypsy fell through has long since closed and she has been unable to find any way out. For what must be the tenth time, she opens the only door and pushes on the bricks that refuse to budge. Tired of walking and out of ideas, Sari takes a seat on a small dais that once held a chair. Only the feet remain, the clawed hands that are clutching orbs having fused to the stone floor. Seeing holes in the top of the pieces, she pulls out a dagger and tries to jam it into the space. Twisting and wrenching the weapon, the gypsy fights to turn it like a dial and smiles when the claw moves. Her joy is short-lived when the chair foot snaps in half and she tumbles down the short flight of stairs. With a scream of frustration, Sari hurls the dagger at the stained-glass window in the back and rolls away before a reflection barrier can launch the blade back.
“I have checked every brick and corner of this place,” the gypsy says, diving forward to grab the weapon out of the air. Balancing it on her finger, she listens for any noise besides the howling wind outside. “There is no way out of here! Was Timoran supposed to get this room and bash his way out? Maybe Nyx or Dariana? You need me for that final battle, so stop with the games and open the door. Hello? Don’t make me put holes in your precious paintings. Though that would be an improvement for some of these artistic horrors.”
“I dare you to do that.”
“It would make the time go faster.”
“He is your enemy and getting him mad could make him sloppy.”
“Do you really think an immortal would care?”
“Only one way to find out.”
“Stop using my magic to throw my voice and see what happens?”
“Either that or admit you’re losing your mind.”
“Shut up.”
Whistling her favorite song, Sari skips over to the painting of a traveling circus and runs her finger along the frame. She spins to slash the ancient piece of art, a fan of ice rippling off the tip of her dagger. The jagged spell tears into the canvas until it is nothing more than strips hanging down to the floor. Searching for the pieces with depictions of people, she climbs the rough wall to po
kes holes in all of the eyes and gouges frowns into the faces. Sari waits to see if anything happens, but the room remains quiet and blocked off from the rest of the castle. Stabbing at another painting, she twists her dagger until it hits the solid wall behind the frame. The gypsy yanks it free and dives to the side, her imagination making her think blood or acid will shoot out of the hole. When nothing happens, she angrily smacks the painting and cringes as the entire thing falls off the rusty hook and smashes against the floor.
Giving in to her frustration, Sari draws more daggers and dances around the room while juggling the weapons. She rips into every painting that she passes and steadily gets more flamboyant with her movements, her spins eventually turning into armless cartwheels. Caught up in her own actions, the gypsy barely pays attention to the portrait of a female demon. Wearing a green dress that flares into tentacles, the woman would seem human if not for her boney wings, blade-like fingernails, and curled horns on the sides of her head. When Sari swings her dagger at a nearby landscape portrait, the figure bends down to catch the surprised champion by the wrist and throw her into the middle of the room. A phantom of the woman flies out of the picture and hovers around the ceiling, her emerald eyes creating dots of light on the floor. Opening a mouth that stretches to the full length of her body, the demon shrieks with enough force to shake every painting. All, but three of them clatter to the ground and burst into flames that remain even after the works have been reduced to ashes.
Drifting out of one of the surviving paintings, a calico in a torn wedding dress walks toward Sari and points a spectral blade at the gypsy’s throat. Her long, ebony hair is like a living shadow, which contrasts with the glow of her translucent body. Flicking behind the woman is a crimson tail that leaves fiery sparks whenever it strikes the floor. Not far behind, a female orc jumps free of her portrait and spins two large axes in an attempt to intimidate everyone. Failing to get a reaction, the blonde-haired warrior goes about dipping her weapons into ashes until they are coated in magical flames. She sniffs at the fire and grins, the expression showing off her large incisors. Reaching into the floor, the phantasmal bride pulls out a chain and yanks hard to draw out a third ghost from the final painting. The chaos elf is dressed in the ragged remains of a priestess’s robes and stumbles along with the help of a broken staff. Whenever she moves too slow for the others, the leash around her neck gets tighter and she is pulled forward. No matter the force, the mumbling woman never falls and always gradually falls back into her sluggish pace.
“What gives you the right to destroy our home?” the bride asks, tossing the chain leash to the orc. With a wave of her hand, she sends Sari skidding across the floor, which moves the gypsy away from a shower of bile. “All of us get to play, Ueragal. Don’t go dissolving our husband’s enemy and taking all of the credit. Each of us should get a turn. Personally, I want to flay her like she did to my paintings.”
“I am not interested in this one, Meredith. Give me the channeler who killed my son,” the demon declares while sinking to the floor. Leaving a trail of slime in her wake, the ghost heads for the champion, but stops when the orc slams an axe into her path. “A screeching banshee in life, but a mute in death. I have no sympathy for the whore who murdered and replaced me. Do not glare at me, Zult, unless you desire my fury.”
Meredith bangs her sword on the ground, the spectral blade sending a tremor through the room. “No fighting amongst ourselves! Should I remind you, Ueragal, that you devoured me to take my place? We can agree that all of us got what we deserved. All except Skuggi over here. I still hate that her child survived while our sons perished. You must be so happy that we have someone else to torture today. Even better, you get to help us.”
“I ran with the shadows,” the chaos elf mutters, drool falling from her mouth.
“And you got your throat slit because you were too stupid to return to Ambervale when you had the chance,” Ueragal snaps, slapping the other woman in the face. The battered ghost does not react to the blow and takes another step forward. “I cannot believe such a miserable phantom was once a goddess. She makes me sick. We should try to use this champion to destroy her completely. It would make the rest of eternity much more tolerable. Where did that cowering mortal go?”
The Baron’s deceased wives look around and spot Sari sneaking towards the far side of the room. Charging at the champion, Zult drags Skuggi behind her and leaps with both axes held over her head. The gypsy rolls away and slashes at the ghost, her blade causing nothing more than a momentary shimmer. Ueragal takes to the air and joins in the chase, her tentacles slapping at Sari, who flips and spins away from the attacks. With a screech of rage, the demon swoops and rams her enemy in the back. The gypsy bounces and rolls into one of the flames, her body bursting into a curtain of sparks. A high-pitched whistle erupts from the other side of the room, drawing the wives’ attention to where Sari is leaning against the wall. Unwrapping the chain leash from her waist, Zult uses Skuggi like a flail that stretches toward the champion. Rapid muttering can be heard from the chaos elf, who creates a ghostly wave that billows across the floor and surrounds the gypsy. The spell slams its target against the wall and another explosion rocks the damaged gallery, the force enough to dislodge a single brick from the doorway.
“Another immortal?” Ueragal asks when Sari pops out from behind a curtain. The demon dives to catch her prey, but is knocked away by an even bigger blast that threatens to collapse the room. “This champion has more than one life and seems fine with wasting them. More of those attacks and the place will fall on our heads. I would rather be trapped in a sealed room than rubble. Open the door, so we can escape before it crumbles.”
“Don’t be so gullible,” Meredith states, the bride never having moved from her spot. She ignores the taunting gypsy, which is destroyed by Zult, and turns in a tight circle. “This one knows illusions. Pay attention to your surroundings and you’ll find the real one. Not to mention that damage is fake. She doesn’t have the power to destroy a building unless she has water nearby. Nothing like that in here.”
All of the brides focus on locating Sari, who they find balancing on a high curtain rod and camouflaged to resemble the wall. The gypsy is emptying waterskins onto the floor, the large puddle appearing as the illusions fade away. Leaping over Ueragal, she has a geyser meet her feet and help her weave around Zult and Skuggi. Hurling ice weapons of all shapes and sizes, Sari quickly realizes that she still has no way to injure the ghosts. Ducking under Meredith’s stab, she attempts to freeze the bride, but the phantom walks out of the block as if it does not exist. Unable to block the spectral weapons, the champion dodges and rolls, which leads to her getting cut when more than one enemy attacks. Faced with another wave of magic from the chaos elf, Sari erects a wall that slows the spell. Before she is struck, the barrier bends and the backside swoops down to flip the champion into the air. Steaming geysers erupt in an attempt to blind Ueragal, but the demon’s ram-like horns slam into the gypsy’s stomach. Crashing to the ground, all of her creations fall apart and Sari is left coughing up blood.
“That was a nice attempt,” Meredith whispers as she grabs Sari’s blue hair. Placing her sword against the gypsy’s throat, she watches a trickle of blood drip onto the blade. “Been too long since I killed someone. My life was cut too short, but it was enough to earn a memorial. I doubt you will get anything. Everyone who dies here ends up being forgotten.”
“Why do you get to kill her?” Ueragal asks, moving the other woman’s weapon away. A stomping foot causes her to turn toward Zult, the orc banging her axes together. “You and the one who spawned a traitor don’t get to complain. Stephen lived centuries longer than all of your sons, including that recent abomination. I should be allowed to kill a champion in his honor since he was actually a part of this game.”
“My daughter stands above my shadow,” Skuggi whispers with a toothless smile.
“That’s why she said sons, idiot,” Meredith snaps before freeing her sword. She mo
ves to slit Sari’s throat, but a tentacle wraps around her arm. “Would you stop making this a contest? If we let her escape then Arthuru will punish us. Remember the early days when he was always angry and took his rage out on us? None of us have the luxury of being the wife he truly loves, so he won’t think twice about our suffering. Now, let me finish this.”
Yanking herself free of Ueragal, the bride pushes her blade into Sari’s throat and watches for spurting blood. Instead, the body explodes into a star of ice and the real one rises out of the pool near the dais. Exhausted from the complicated replacement spell, the gypsy struggles to her feet and draws her stiletto, which lengthens into a sword of dripping water. The blade quivers and collapses, Sari’s concentration faltering due to a burning cut on her neck. She remains standing as the wives cautiously surround her and begin to close in. Meredith gestures for everyone to get in position and smiles at the thought of killing a champion. They all stop when a piece of paper drifts from a hole in the ceiling and lands in the gypsy’s hands.
“I am sorry that I could not make the reunion,” Sari reads, the words appearing as she speaks. The sloppy handwriting is marked with doodles along the edges, each one crossed out with a decorative ‘X’. “Arthuru wouldn’t let me come back to Shayd, so I am going to take a vacation. I did some naughty things and need to think about my actions. Please don’t save me any cake or wine, but I would like a bowl of soup if you can send me some. I am very cold. It does not have to be a bowl if that is too much trouble. By the way, there is a powerful spell in this letter, so make sure you are not facing this side of the parchment when it goes off. That will happen as soon as my name is said. Again, I am sorry that I could not make the reunion, but I hope the present I left will mean we are still friends. Hugs, kisses, and dramatic staring contests . . . signed Yola Biggs.”
Seeing sparks appear along the words, Sari flips the letter in her hands and watches a wide blast of holy light cover the room. While the champion is unaffected, the four ghosts shriek and are wiped out of existence by the powerful spell. Their contorted outlines are imprinted on the stones where their paintings once hung, only the charred frames remaining from the original works. With a rumble, the far wall collapses and reveals the hallway, which becomes littered with smoking pebbles. Sari remains by the dais and stares at the destruction, her heart pounding in her chest from the small taste of power that rocketed through her own body.
Warlord of the Forgotten Age Page 25
