The Seventh Sentinel

by Mary Kirchoff

  Bram steadied himself on the boulder. The wind threatened to blow him to the ground just as surely as it grasped at the flyers. Standing firmly, he extended his staff and prepared to draw forth another lightning bolt.

  Overhead, Lyim turned his flying monster away from the battle. Before Bram could strike a second time, one after another the creatures wheeled and flew from the field. Within moments they were nothing but specks disappearing against the churning, blue-black sky.

  Stunned combatants on both sides seemed to pause as all eyes watched the monsters depart. Could they be retreating to regroup and attack anew? A cry arose from the Hylar, who were taking full advantage of the distraction to pinch off the waist of the battlefield once again. Shouting Mercadior’s name, the cavaliers charged anew into the churning mass of Qindarans. The invaders appeared dispirited by the flight of their champions. For the first time since the fight began, whole groups were tearing themselves away from the army and fleeing back toward the east. Many of those trapped west of the Pass, facing the combined onslaught of Mercadior’s cavaliers and Bram’s elemental, laid down their weapons and begged for quarter.

  Above the battle, Bram shook his head. How could Lyim have turned what looked like disaster into victory, and then so abruptly abandoned the field, consigning his army to complete destruction? All blackguards were cowards on some level, but was Lyim so fainthearted as to flee during victory?

  Bram watched the last of the flying creatures disappear into the western sky, and suddenly knew the answer. His heart turned cold.

  The score of monsters were flying at top speed for an unsuspecting Wayreth.

  Fanned by the news of Salimshad’s death, the fire that had long burned inside Lyim grew with each league that he drew closer to the great Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The ultimate target of his obsession was nearly in his grasp. The loss of his Qindaras stronghold had forced him to take bold action that was about to pay off.

  Damn Salimshad for his carelessness! Lyim thought to himself. The elf’s ignominious demise was the only thing marring an otherwise perfect campaign.

  Despite Salim’s annoying death, events north of Thorbardin had played into Lyim’s hands. He had anticipated the Council would launch a preemptive attack during the weeks that his army marched; it was just a question of where. He was not surprised to find Guerrand’s nephew on the battlefield in the Pass, since Bram was the only spellcaster on Ansalon with the potential to thwart him. In fact, Lyim had counted on his being there because it meant the spellcaster would not be waiting at the Tower of High Sorcery.

  The moment Lyim recognized Bram’s handiwork in the form of the earth elemental, he knew it was time to abandon his army to whatever fate awaited it. He wouldn’t need that ragtag bunch for what lay ahead, but he did need Bram out of his way. Lyim was confident his nabassu could slash through whatever fortifications the mages at Wayreth had fashioned. Without Bram’s magic to offset the creatures’ supernatural powers, no soldiers would withstand their terrifying onslaught.

  Now Bram was more than thirty leagues away, mopping up the remains of Lyim’s discarded army. On the back of a flying nabassu with Kirah behind him, Lyim had the Towers of Wayreth in his sight.

  In normal times, as the Council was proud of saying, Wayreth “could be found only by those invited to seek it.” Ancient enchantments necessitated by the persecution of wizards just prior to the Cataclysm hid the site from all eyes. Lyim knew that those enchantments drew from the magical fabric as did all wizard spells, and thus would be weakened as Ventyr drew closer to the tower.

  The end is near, Aniirin.

  Lyim was mildly surprised to hear Ventyr’s voice in his head. The gauntlet rarely communicated anymore, unless Lyim opened the discussion. Soon we will return home in triumph, he responded.

  Return home to what? Ventyr asked. The palace is destroyed and the citizens are dead. Qindaras is no more.

  Lyim found this exchange with Ventyr mildly annoying. It had never been so negative before. We’ll rebuild, Ventyr. Just do what you’re supposed to do here, and you’ll have all the power you need to restore the palace.

  With a wave of his hand, Lyim directed the nabassu’s attention to the two black edifices rising from an opening in the canopy of the great Forest of Wayreth. They dived, and the fire in Lyim burned ever hotter.

  As they approached, Lyim could see the Council was obviously expecting the towers to be attacked. Nearby trees had been cleared away to deny an attacking force protective cover. A wide ditch had been dug outside the triangular wall encircling the towers, and the excavated earth used to construct a rampart behind the ditch. The felled trees were embedded in the rampart and in front of the ditch like giant spikes to impede charges.

  Elves armed with bows stood guard on the rampart. They looked up in response to the screeches of the diving nabassu, and with only moments to react, most dived for cover. Some of the more valiant defended themselves with spears and arrows; they died where they stood.

  Lyim circled the tower once, staying above the fight. He had seen something in the rear courtyard that caught his interest. As his nabassu came round again to the back of the towers, he saw it once more: a group of mages, gathered in the open and looking desperately toward the sounds of slaughter that came from outside the rampart beyond their wall.

  Lyim pulled away the cloth he had wrapped around his face to protect himself against the cold blast of wind during the flight. He leaned back to speak to Kirah. “We’re going down.” A brief command to the nabassu turned the creature downward. Lyim and Kirah flattened themselves across the monster’s back just moments before it touched ground and skidded on its taloned feet across the smoothly paved courtyard.

  A group of more than a dozen mages, who had been desperately working to transport the many valuable magical tomes in the towers to a vault beneath a guard tower, tumbled across the flagstones toward the blockhouse. Lyim laughed at the sight of these men and women, once the most powerful wizards in the world, fleeing in terror at his arrival. One unfortunate mage in a white robe was pinned beneath the ghastly foot of the nabassu. The monster split the mage open with a single swipe of its razor-sharp claw. The armload of scrolls slowly turned red as the pooling blood soaked into them.

  Lyim jumped to the flagstones from the monster’s back as it turned to pursue the other wizards and trap them against the wall. The creature stopped when a woman in black robes stepped purposefully before the group. Lyim peered at her, amused by her futile bravery. Then he recognized her as Dagamier—she had been one of the defenders of Bastion years before when Lyim had sought to use that fortress to gain access to the Lost Citadel. He thought she had died after being pierced through the midsection by a naga’s tail spike.

  “You failed to stop me once before, Dagamier. Do you think you can succeed now, without your precious magic to aid you?” Lyim taunted. But the woman, apparently unfazed, strode forward, all the while appearing to be casting a spell. Lyim calmly extended the gauntlet before him to trap whatever energy she could muster.

  Suddenly the woman lunged, striking Lyim’s forearm with a concealed dagger. Pain burst in his arm, searing and hideous like Guerrand’s sword cut. Lyim stumbled backward and saw that his sleeve was soaked with blood. She hadn’t been casting a spell at all, but simply trying to distract him until she got close enough to use her knife.

  “Get her!” Lyim bellowed. The nabassu sprang, faster than any human could react. Curved and dripping teeth sank into Dagamier’s shoulder. Kirah, still strapped to the fiend’s back, cried aloud when the wizard’s blood spattered against her arms and legs.

  A clatter of hooves rang like dwarven hammers against the stones of the courtyard. Dagamier forgotten, Lyim’s head jerked upward. Centaurs simply began appearing from thin air! The centaurs carried powerful bows in their hands and had long swords strapped across their backs.

  Where did they come from? Lyim hissed to Ventyr.

  They have opened a pathway from the faerie re
alm directly into the courtyard of the towers. I cannot see farther.

  The centaurs immediately opened fire with their long, painted arrows at the nabassu circling overhead and diving to attack. At Thorbardin the dwarves’ crossbow bolts had bounced off the nabassu’s thick, stony hide, but the biting arrows of the centaurs sank in. Nabassu shrieked with rage as the shafts pierced their wings and cut their flesh. Several tumbled to the ground thrashing wildly, too badly wounded to fly but too strong to die.

  Lyim turned back to his nabassu mount, but it was already streaking skyward with Kirah on its back, escaping from the storm of lethal arrows. When one of the missiles narrowly missed Lyim, he knew it was time to leave the fight to the creatures from the Abyss.

  Lyim tugged up the gauntlet, turned, and dashed toward the southernmost of the two towers. The path was clear for him to reach his goal.

  * * * * *

  Bram burst through the faerie road portal, directly into the courtyard at the front of the Tower of High Sorcery. Behind him came Mercadior and thirty of the emperor’s most experienced cavaliers, now on foot, led by none other than King Weador himself.

  The king had watched the battle outside Thorbardin, had witnessed Lyim’s sudden departure. He, too, knew where the renegade was headed at flying speed. Concerned for the future of all magic, Weador had materialized in Thorbardin. Bram was already preparing to leave for the tower, and though the tuatha themselves could not fight, Weador offered to lead Mercadior and his human warriors through the faerie realm to surprise Lyim at Wayreth. Mercadior, glad for the opportunity to meet the object of his curiosity, had instantly agreed to continue his part in the battle.

  Bram noted the cavaliers had a dazed look about them after their trip through the faerie realm, but they snapped back immediately when dumped in the midst of the fray. The warriors from Northern Ergoth raced across the courtyard and streamed up onto the sandbagged scaffold erected around the tower’s outer wall. There they joined the Qualinesti, who had formed into clusters of archers. Around each group was an outer ring of elves whose gleaming long swords slashed at any monsters that ventured too close.

  Overhead, the hideous fiends circled and dived, uttering their horrid shrieks. Weador watched them for several moments, then turned to Bram. “I see now why the tide of battle almost turned against you at the Pass. Those are nabassu, voracious and evil fiends from the Abyss. They come to your world rarely, and then only to kill.”

  Another familiar voice startled Bram. “Once again, I am forced to save you, foolish human. This time I had to bring a hundred of my friends just to extricate you, but Habakkuk will surely reward me for my sacrifice.”

  Bram spun around and found himself facing a horseman. “Aurestes!” He was stunned, but glad to see the cantankerous centaur who had guided him to Primula’s realm. Unfortunately, there was no time for pleasantries. “Tell me, how badly pressed are the defenders here?”

  Aurestes pawed the ground. “The battle is new enough that there is more panic than real damage yet. I saw two mages in the rear courtyard, one slain, the other badly wounded.”

  “Who?” Bram demanded, then realized the centaur knew no one at Wayreth. “Can you describe them?”

  The horseman’s face scrunched in thought. “One wore a white robe.”

  Bram let out a sigh of relief.

  “The other was a young woman, a brave Black Robe who stood up to the enemy leader. She wounded him with a dagger before his mount struck her down.”

  Bram’s breath caught, became ragged. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t hope. He just knew. Only Dagamier would stand against Lyim, armed with only a knife. At least there was hope she was still alive.

  Aurestes’s urgent voice penetrated his stupor. “Bram! I fear I saw the man who was wounded by the mage enter the tower. I was pursuing when you arrived.”

  Bram’s eyes snapped wide. “A bald man? Was he wearing an unusual gauntlet?”

  Aurestes considered only briefly. “Yes, he was bald. I don’t recall if there was a gauntlet or not; his arm was bloody from the woman’s attack.”

  Without another word, Bram raced for the foretower. He bent to scoop up a fallen sword from a slain elf and tucked it through his belt. He paused inside momentarily and listened. Where would Lyim go? He didn’t need to ponder long, for just then an eerie blue light shot through the doorway to the Hall of Mages. Squinting against the glare, he dashed into the chamber.

  Despite the light, he had no trouble spotting Lyim atop the dais, where the empty seats of the Council of Three rose above the other eighteen.

  Gauntlet held high, Lyim’s whole body shook as if raw bolts of electricity coursed through it, sending sparks into the cold shadows at the edges of the circular room. He was facing toward Bram, but he saw-nothing. His head was tipped backward and his back was arched sharply, almost as if he were held in the grip of some monstrous, invisible fist. Lyim no longer stood on the dais, but was somehow suspended a hand’s-breadth above it, twisting slowly in the crackling, surging air. Lyim’s garments whipped around him, though Bram could feel no breeze. And all the while, bright, purplish bolts of energy surged from the walls and the air into the bloodstained gauntlet on Lyim’s right hand. The tower acted as a conduit to whatever magical energy remained in the world, funneling it directly to the man who would destroy it all.

  Bram’s fingers tightened about the staff that he carried always to power his spells. He felt like a straw through which the magic traveled, a pipeline for the effect he envisioned. Eyes closed, he swayed slightly when the energy suddenly surged, alerting him that he had marshaled enough to send the spell forth.

  A familiar, startled cry robbed him of his concentration. Bram’s eyes snapped open and locked with horror upon the too-thin form of his aunt bursting through the door. Oblivious to Bram’s presence, Kirah launched herself at Lyim’s charged form. A halo of energy seemed to form around her as she approached.

  “Kirah, no!” Bram cried. “For the gods’ sake, don’t come between us again! I won’t hesitate a second time!”

  But either it was too late to stop her momentum, or Kirah didn’t care to try. She stumbled forward like a wraith and reached out to her lover with arms held wide.

  The power flowing into Lyim flooded through Kirah’s arms, saturating her. Without the gauntlet to protect her, she was exposed to the energy’s full force. A flash of light blinded Bram for an instant, then he saw Kirah tumbling backward across the hard floor. Lyim appeared unaware that anything had happened.

  Holding his staff before him with renewed determination, Bram channeled the power of Chislev through it.

  Lyim’s body spasmed, as if struck a physical blow. But the potentate of Qindaras was oblivious to anything but whatever was happening inside his twisted mind. Bram concentrated on the elemental nature of wood, the strength of oak and vallenwood. In his mind, flesh and blood mingled with the essence of the tree’s heart. Across the room, where vibrant light danced around Lyim’s spread-eagled form, the mage’s body was already changing. His legs were joined into a solid mass, rooted to the floor. Jittering bolts of light danced across Lyim’s fingertips as his arms grew rigid, his flesh turned to bark, his clothing to leaves and vines.

  Then the display of light stopped. The elaborate gauntlet of ivory, jade, and silver interlocking plates fell away from the tree like any ordinary glove to the cold, stone floor of the audience hall. Bram scarcely saw it land. He was on his way to Kirah’s side.

  She lay in a tangle against the wall. Her exposed flesh was blistered and bruised, her eyes swollen nearly shut. Bram lifted his aunt up onto his lap and cradled her pale head. “Just rest, Kirah, and I’ll heal you,” he said, trying to sound more soothing than desperate.

  She shook her pale head weakly. “Don’t.”

  “But you’ll die!”

  Kirah managed a weak smile. “I’ve been dead before, at least in my heart. I can’t imagine the real thing is any worse.”

  “Don’t go, Kirah,” Bra
m pleaded. “I’ve lost too many people already.”

  Kirah looked faintly toward where Lyim stood as a tree. “I couldn’t go back to the way things were after I’ve been with him.”

  “But Lyim’s not dead!” Bram pleaded. “I’ve just contained him in the form of a tree, so he can stand trial before the Conclave for his crimes.”

  “They’ll find him guilty and have him killed,” she managed, though her voice was growing weaker by the word. “As they should.”

  Bram couldn’t deny the truth of Lyim’s probable fate. Still, he had to try. “It’s not your time yet, Kirah. You can choose to stay!”

  Kirah smiled, a faint trembling of the lips. “I made my choice long ago.” With that, her eyes sank shut. Kirah’s thin face took on the most peaceful countenance Bram had ever seen.

  Studying Kirah’s silent, pale face, he saw the little girl he’d grown up with, so near in age were they. He recalled when he had seen her close to death before, relived in a flash the anguished fight he and Guerrand had waged to save Kirah from the medusa plague. Lyim had tried to kill her then, but this time, when by all rights she should have been safe, Lyim had succeeded.

  Just when he thought his grief would choke him, a gentle hand came down upon his shoulder. Bram’s breath was coming in great, shuddering gasps, and his chest and shoulders ached from the strain. Startled, he spun around and saw Par-Salian.

  “It’s done, Bram,” the white-haired wizard said softly. He stooped to retrieve the Gauntlet of Ventyr. Holding it up to the light of a torch, Par-Salian said, “So many lives lost because of an ornate glove.” He sighed. “At least magic is safe again, thanks to your efforts.”

  “Perhaps magic is secure, but that’s no comfort to me!”

  Par-Salian regarded him gravely. “You’ve lost a great deal—”