by Greg Curtis
And if it wasn't just the two hundred and some souls who they'd rescued who were planning the attack but an entire army – that could be very bad. But would the sprites strike back? She asked.
“We don't know,” a tired looking sun elf answered her. “But if the enchantment can respond to another enchantment, if it acts like a living person, then maybe. And if what Fylarne says is right, it may even be a living creature. Something like the thrones. What would they do if they were threatened?”
She was right, Elodie realised. Because it occurred to her that she didn't know either. They'd taken mortal form simply because she'd used the portal of the Temple to extend the thrones into other worlds. And they'd scoured her mind when she'd entered the Temple because they'd thought she might be a threat. Whatever they were, they acted like people. This could be the same. An enchantment that stood somewhere between the world of the living and the inanimate. Maybe even one that had been created from the mind and the very essence of someone however long ago. Who was to say what it might do. Or even what it could do.
“Is there anything else you need from me?” she asked, not wanting to think about the possibility of an attack.
“No,” one of her own people replied unhappily. He had a huge bandage wrapped around his head. “That is as much as we could ask of you and the Temple.”
“Then I'll go and speak with the thrones. Maybe they'll have something else to offer.”
But as she turned and left them, heading for the front of the building and the open air, she doubted there was much they could do. And even if they could do something, they likely wouldn't. The thrones had a function and they more or less did it and no more. For all that they looked like perfect people, they were very much like the human mechanical contrivances. They operated according to their instructions and never varied from them. It wasn't in their nature to do anything else.
Outside at least the sun was shining. And she felt better no longer being confined in that box like structure. And as she walked through the people busy at their tables, planning saving the world, a weight was lifted from her. And an unexpected thought struck her. She would do as she'd said she would. But before that she would go to Charlton and shop for a new dress.
Nga Roth was right, she could use something a little more fetching than her guardian robes. Something that might catch the eye of her man.
It might be wrong, for so many reasons. Because she was a guardian. Because he was a human. But everything else in this world was wrong lately. And she was the only guardian remaining. Surely she could make up some new rules for herself. After all, who was going to tell her not to?
Chapter Forty Four
It was quiet in the forest. Fylarne was glad of that. The more quiet things were, the more likely it was that there was nothing hunting him. No wolves at least. Jungle cats were another matter. They were pretty quiet – and very deadly!
He wished he knew more bush craft. But he hadn't been raised to spend time in the forests, or even out in the open. He could throw a line and catch a fish. Harvest some berries. Start a fire. But that was most of what he could do. And he didn't have a lot of useful magic to defend himself with either. So he felt vulnerable in the woods. Especially on his own. But it had to be done.
Fylarne had realised that while he'd been lying on a bedroll among hundreds of other patients, being tended to. And most especially that truth had hit him as he'd spoken to the other patients. Some of them were former slaves. And they would tell him just as they had told everyone else, of their time in N'Diel. Of how they had truly believed they were living in paradise. Digging for the love of it or to find treasure. Completely unaware of their suffering.
It was that that had shown him what his path had to be. It was that that had finally dragged him out of his sick bed and gain the necessary magic. To prepare himself for the task ahead. Because the slaves were never going to free themselves. They didn't even know they were slaves. And the leaders were never going to send anyone to do it. They were too busy thinking about defending themselves. So he had to do it.
Because of that he had sat on the golem throne in Chy's yard, and thankfully gained the magic he had needed. The gift of summoning stone and destroying it. Others were doing the same of course – but mostly in case the sprites attacked. They wanted to be prepared.
He had also got word to the leaders about how they could take the fight back to the enemy if and when that time ever came. Mostly that involved creating a hidden spiderweb of portals on N'Diel. It was a simple plan, not that much different to what they were doing on a score of other worlds. You simply sent a few wizards with the right magic to the sprites' world, had them walk a league more or less in every direction, and create a new portal. The only difference was, that they had to cast the portals in the forests so the sprites wouldn't come across them. Not that most of them would even notice them if they saw them. And of course each new portal that was created, was another portal from which more wizards could travel.
Some of that had been done. From what he could tell there were now scores of portals on N'Diel and more being constructed. None of them of course, were on roads or in towns. But some, like the one he had just emerged from, were close.
Now it was time, he knew, to find out just how much he had learned. Now it was time to start freeing the slaves. Or at least it would be when darkness fell.
But as he sat in the forest, hidden by the trees, he knew this wouldn't be as simple as the last rescue had been. Because now, along with the slaves, there were overseers. Slaves with huge wings and powerful magic. Half a dozen of them.
Obviously things had changed on N'Diel. The ruined Temple was preparing for an attack. And the overseers had potent magic. But in the end, he silently told himself, they had exactly the same vulnerability as all the other slaves. They carried a piece of the enchantment inside them.
It was a long wait for nightfall. Four or five hours at least, sitting among the trees, freezing to death because naturally he couldn't set a fire. But that was alright. It gave him time to rest after he'd spent a full day walking. He needed that time. Because even though he'd released himself from the infirmary, he was far from fit. The healers wouldn't have discharged him if he'd asked. But even if they had, he would likely have been sent back to the gaol – assuming it still stood.
The chances were though, that the leaders didn't even know he was gone. He hadn't exactly told anyone he was leaving and no one had been keeping watch on him. He wondered if they'd even come looking for him when they realised he was missing.
But he put that aside as the sky grew dark. And as he saw the slaves drop to the ground one by one as the day ended. Their work for the day was done, he supposed and even the compulsion they were under knew enough to let them rest. Otherwise, they wouldn't be able to keep working. But even if the workers collapsed, the overseers didn't. They kept flying overhead, making sure that no one was approaching.
They had to be his first target.
Fylarne sat there on the ice cold ground, and watched them as they flew overhead, waiting for one of them to come close enough. And it wasn't long before one fluttered into view. Near enough that he was sure his summoning would work.
Then, his heart beating hard in his chest, he reached out and summoned the stone from the woman's chest and destroyed it.
She fell to the ground almost instantly, letting out only the smallest of cries, and Fylarne knew a moment of triumph. Before he saw three more of the overseers start heading his way. They were obviously alert even in the darkness.
Thankfully they weren't quick witted, and when they came close enough he summoned the grains of stone from them as well and watched them fall. Then he congratulated himself. Four down! It was a good start. Until a massive ball of flame came flying his way!
“Ladies above!” He threw himself to the ground behind the tree and prayed as the entire sky lit up with fire, and for a moment he thought he was about to be roasted alive.
But the fire ball
missed. They didn't know who he was or where he was, especially in the darkness. So they were just shooting blind. Still things became uncomfortably warm as they peppered the forest with fire, and it was in large part just luck that saved him.
After that it was the turn of stupidity to champion his cause, as the last two overseers came fluttering his way, perhaps hoping to find a scorched body. Instead they joined their companions on the ground.
“Praise be!” Fylarne let out a heavy breath as he realised the battle was over. The overseers were down, and he knew that the rest of the slaves would pose no danger to him. They would simply lay there on the ground till the morning found them. And when it did he promised them, they would be free too.
Then some of them started wailing and shaking, and he instantly realised he'd miscalculated. The ruined Temple had realised the town was under attack and it was responding. Transforming the workers into overseers, just as it had in Stonely.
“Damn it!” Fylarne cursed his stupidity, then dropped his pack and started running as best he could for the town. Because he knew he had to strike before they struck him.
Half way there, he saw the first of them standing up, and he knew his time was limited, and his fitness was poor. But he was close enough that with his desperation giving him strength, he could start summoning more stones from their flesh. And so as they got up, he made sure they fell down again.
In that way he finally reached the town of rude huts, found a wall to lean against and started gasping for breath, even as he kept knocking down more of the slaves. Striking from a concealed position. Casting as fast as he could.
Soon there were scores of slaves lying on the ground, the fight gone from them. But unfortunately there were hundreds more on their feet, looking around, hunting for him, and he knew he was in trouble. Maybe his plan hadn't been such a clever one after all.
But it was too late to blame himself for his mistakes. There was only time to fight. So that was what he did. He poked his head around the corner of the building he was sheltering behind, and kept casting. Bringing them down one after another, and trying not to notice that some of them were casting already, and sending ice and fire and lightning and anything else they could imagine, his way.
Then when they got too close and the building he was sheltering behind was in flames, he ran. Sprinting with all he had for the next one and hoping that no one spotted him in the darkness. Unfortunately some of them did and a blast of icicles ripped holes through the shack, before he left it and ran for the next one. That was too damned close!
Still he fought. He stopped wherever he could and he dropped more of the former slaves where they stood while somehow not dying. That was a good thing. Less good was that they were getting closer all the time.
Maybe he shouldn't have tried to take on an entire town by himself! That had probably been a mistake he thought as another building he was sheltering behind abruptly collapsed into a pile of rubble for no apparent reason. But then he thought, he just had to run – harder than before. So that was what he did.
Fylarne barely made the next building as something exploded behind him and sent him tumbling. But somehow he survived that and even sent three more of the slaves who'd come around the other side of it, to the ground. But then he realised with a sick feeling in his gut, he was trapped! They were coming from both sides. And he couldn't run. Even if he'd had the stamina, it was open ground all the way back to the forest.
He was trapped!
Desperation or madness told him the only way out, and he leapt for the roof, somehow managed to grab it and then hoisted himself up on to it. But after that he knew, there was no more running. So all he could do was keep his head down and keep casting. But he was still going to die.
Then from out of nowhere a flash of light struck the other side of town and everything stopped. Even Fylarne stopped casting, partly because he was blinded and partly because he simply didn't know what was happening. But as soon as he could see he started summoning stone from flesh again as fast as he knew how.
The Ladies and the Gentlemen had blessed him, he realised. Granted him this one chance. And he needed to take advantage of it.
Except that it wasn't one last chance, he realised as another flash lit up the entire town and turned everything into confusion. Something was happening. But he didn't know what. All he kew was that he needed to keep summoning stone from flesh.
Then the entire town erupted into a mass of explosions, and very little made sense. Except perhaps that more of the former slaves were lying helplessly on the ground than he'd cast on. And the rest were milling around in confusion, wondering where their enemy was.
They were under attack!
Fylarne almost stopped casting his spell about then, just as confused as the slaves. Especially when he saw more bodies tumbling to the ground all around the town. But somehow he willed himself to keep going, emptying all the nearby streets. And somehow an impossible battle slowly started being won.
It took time. Far too long. But eventually there were so many fallen slaves lying on the streets that he wondered how difficult it would be to wake them. They were everywhere. And none of those still standing were casting in his direction. They'd forgotten about him in their confusion. They weren't even looking up.
Meanwhile the town burned.
In time, the battle grew quiet, and he knew it could only be because there weren't many slaves left to continue the fight. If there had been they would have been battling. They wouldn't stop. Not until they were released from the enchantment holding them.
Eventually the battle ended, and he knew as he lay on the roof hunting for anyone else to cast his magic on, that there weren't any left. The battle had been won. But what he didn't know was who had been fighting it with him.
Then he noticed a little black, sinuous shape flitting through the air, sending out little puffs of fire.
“Spike?” It couldn't be! And after all one of those little black dragons looked much like another. And yet he was sure it was. Which meant that Trey had to be around somewhere as well. The two were inseparable.
“So you let them tree you?” A familiar voice came out of the darkness. “Any particular reason for that? Or just another tactical blunder?!”
“Dah?” What was this, Fylarne wondered? A reunion? And then he saw the sylph step out from behind a building. “You're here?!”
“Someone had to save your scrawny backside!” she replied, doing her best to look imperious.
“Actually it looks sort of fat from where I'm standing. He could do with some more time spent running!” Gris called out from the other side of the street, bow in hand, arrow at the ready.
He looked every bit the warrior, Fylarne thought. He was even dressed in leather armour. But while that was a good thing, it didn't explain why he was here. Or any of the others for that matter. Not that Fylarne was going to complain.
Then more people in various types of armour walked into view, and Fylarne realised he had absolutely no idea what was happening. But he also realised that there was no point in asking. No one was going to give him a proper answer – just more slurs in all likelihood. So he decided on doing something else, getting down.
That proved to be trickier than he'd imagined and he ended up sliding down the roof and then when his legs were dangling over the edge, falling the rest of the way to end up lying flat on his back, while the others laughed at him. It had been so much easier getting up, he thought! Probably because of all that fear powering his muscles.
Still he got up and went to greet the others, a full dozen people, all of them it seemed, better prepared for battle than him.
“So does someone want to tell me what brought you all here?” He tried again.
“The same as you,” a dwarf told him. “We want our families free.”
“Oh!” That made sense, Fylarne guessed. Though not how they were here at the right moment to save his hide. But he guessed that that little titbit would fall out with the picking. �
��But shouldn't you all be helping with the various disasters befalling the world?”
“They don't want us. We don't have the magic they're looking for.”
Light dawned in Fylarne's tired brain. These were the minor casters. And there were a lot more people of every race who had a minor gift than those who had one that they'd pushed themselves to master. Not everyone had the power or the desire to become a full wizard. So by the same measure there were probably a lot more minor casters who'd lost family to the sprites than full wizards. And the leaders didn't want them. They wanted those like Chy Martin who had advanced in the art and could fight with every magical weapon at their disposal. But these minor casters only needed to learn one spell. They didn't need to be wizards to fight the sprites.
“Well I'm glad to have you. Very glad.”
“You don't have us either,” the dwarf retorted unexpectedly. “You're with us – or not. But we have no leaders. Just a common purpose. In fact we wouldn't have been here at all if Gris here hadn't found your trail.”
