by Hal Emerson
His hand clutched the sword in both hands, though his sweat made the wire-wrapped handle slick. Tym had secreted it away when they’d gone north in case he needed it to protect Mr. Davydd. It was the only sword he’d known about, the only one that had been sharp and unspoken for – the sword Prince Raven had practiced with in Vale while Tym, hidden in secret alcoves, had watched on.
He’s Aemon’s Heir for true. He can fix things. He needs time, though.
And so he’d told Stannit and Jaillin what he’d seen as they raced across the Plains of al’Manthian, and they had told him what they’d have to do.
“Here we go!” shouted Stannit to the men. “Valerium to the front!”
The ranks opened and the few men and women who possessed Valerium weapons popped out of concealment; they were mostly Rangers and Rogues who had lost their Eshendai or Ashandel and had no more desire to live past this battle. Tym could see the truth of their grief written on their faces, and felt sorry for them. Everything was so plain to him now, everything so clear, and there was always so much sadness.
He hefted his own Valerium sword, heavy and curved with a single sharp edge, and turned to Stannit.
“Don’t forget the fire!” he said, trying to speak over the shouting and screaming going on around them. Someone was calling his name, but he blocked it from his mind, knowing if he listened he’d be trapped.
I’m sorry Autmaran, sir, but you can’t save everyone.
“Light ‘em – and FIRE!”
The archers they’d recruited lit their arrows in the burning torches and loosed them through the air, as a number of things happened simultaneously.
As the two remaining Shadow Daemons neared the gate, Sylva and Vynap sitting astride them, the last of the torches burst into light and the brazier on the gatehouse itself caught in a flash of flaming glory, illuminating everyone with sudden light. As one, the two creatures faltered, stumbled forward, and threw up black hands across their formless faces; screams like a thousand children torn from nightmares rent the night as the Daemons shrieked in pain; the flaming arrows hit the apex of their flight, and fell, striking the exposed, inky flesh with hissing sounds as the light burned the creatures.
“CHARGE!”
Stannit and Jallin were the first to cross the distance, moving almost simultaneously, but Tym came on right behind them. The first Daemon swung it’s fist in rage and pain, and Tym felt the wind from it blow his hair straight back from his head. He pulled back his sword, praying to the seven angels that guarded the Veil path that his new awkward body wouldn’t get in his way, and stuck the blade up in front of him as he ducked beneath the creature’s reach and ran headlong into the Daemon’s abdomen.
The Valerium flashed like fire, and the Daemon screeched in pain, spinning about and striking its fellow by accident. A chunk of the darkness above Tym fell off, and he found himself suddenly covered in black liquid that was choking him, closing off his mouth. He felt the ground rumble beneath him, and realized the Daemon had fallen to its knees. Moving as fast as his legs could carry him, lungs burning as if he’d inhaled salt water, the boy ran. He emerged from underneath the shadow, only to find himself facing an entire army of stunned Imperials.
For an instant, he just stood there, staring dumbfounded at the men lined up behind the Daemon, all of whom were watching in shock as the Visigony fell to the surprise attack of the Kindred. And then he was running, stumbling, falling backward, as the men shouted and broke rank, screaming murder at him.
The larger of the two Visigony rose in front of him, thrown from his seat on the back of the Daemon he rode, and Tym saw the truth of his name.
Vynap, the second of the Trium.
In his fall, the man-machine had lost the strange gold visor-helmet he had worn, and Tym felt horror and revulsion battle inside his chest and stomach as he looked upon the shell of what had once been a man: his eyes were glass spheres through which light was collected, his mouth no more than a gash of empty space; open holes with rounded edges existed where his ears had been, and his nose was made of two slits in a metal mask; gears clanked and whirled inside him, visible to Tym’s eyes as he reached through the Aspect of Innocence, seeing the truth of the man before him, seeing him for the desecrated body he had become.
The two stood staring at each other for less than half a second that felt like an eternity: purity facing corruption, innocence gazing on depravity. They were seeing in each other polar opposites, and both were captivated.
And then time sped up beyond all recognition, and the Imperial army surged forward, making for the gates, ready to bash down the walls with their bare fists. Arrows shot from the sky, the Kindred on the walls trying to pick off the men on the periphery of the battle. The Air Daemon crashed down from above, folding its wings as it dove at the gate, smashing itself against the portcullis and wooden doors, which began to give under the onslaught.
But Tym’s focus blocked out all of this as the machine-man before him raised a scimitar and swung for his head. The boy evaded the blow, diving over the downed body of the Shadow Daemon even as the creature pushed against the ground, rising once more. But as Tym passed in front of it, he saw Stannit rise up at the creature’s head, and he knew what he had to do. With a mighty heave, he threw his Valerium blade through the air to the former Roarkeman; Stannit caught the blade by the handle, spun it over his head, and sunk the whole length into the Daemon’s head.
The Daemon disappeared, folding in on itself, and then shot outwards.
Vynap disappeared as the shadows engulfed him, and Tym was thrown back a dozen feet. The first half dozen lines of Imperial and Kindred soldiers alike were flung off their feet and deposited on the ground as shadows knifed through them, rending armor and ripping flesh as it went. Tym saw this and ran for dear life, tripping over a fallen soldier as he went. He looked around for the big bear of a man who had been with them since Roarke, and saw him, split in half, his eyes staring at the sky as smoking gears, all that remained of Vynap, rained down around him.
To kill a Shadows Daemon is to die yourself.
Arrows, lit from the brazier by the archers on the walls, launched into the sky, and Tym watched them as they soared like fireflies through the night.
It was only then that he realized his vision had begun to go fuzzy.
He looked down at his side and saw blood flowing from a hundred different cuts, each barely the width of a finger, and narrow as a piece of parchment. The Daemon’s essence had cut him as it’d gone past; he might be able to make it back to the gate, maybe find a Healer –
But the thought died as the second Shadow Daemon, riddled with wounds and screaming in agony, rose up between him and the gate. Tym realized he had moved without thinking about it, and that he was now holding the Valerium sword, his hands no longer shaking as they grasped the hilt.
Did I pick that up? When did I …?
He looked down and saw he was standing in the remains of Stannit, and had to fight back the need to retch. The sword was slick with blood, but still shone like a beacon in the dark night.
A swelling roar, like what the stories said an ocean sounded like, rose behind him. The Imperial army was still coming, trampling over their wounded and dead, and what was left of the small Kindred force outside the walls was scattered and broken. Captain Jaillin was still alive, but he was limping away, trying to rally what men still lived as the Air Daemon soared once more up into sky, ready to slam down one final time into the gate. One more blow would stave it in completely, and everything would have been for naught.
Tym caught a flash of motion from the top of the gatehouse battlements, and saw Commander Autmaran, his bald black head glowing with a white halo that shone so brightly it looked like a mini sun. Autmaran was beckoning to him, shouting what looked like words of encouragement, telling him he could make it back.
But Tym knew the truth.
He raised the sword and ran forward, using his new lanky body to cover the ground quickly, just as Sylva,
the last of the Trium, turned his Daemon to lead the charge against the walls, forcing the creature through the harsh light coming from the brazier and torches. Tym ran forward, as if in a dream, and he sank the Valerium blade into the second Daemon’s heel, all the way to the hilt.
The creature screamed into the night, and Tym felt his hearing go, shattered completely.
It is a good thing, Tym thought to himself, finding something positive like he always tried to do. It means I don’t have to regret losing the sound of music.
The Daemon stumbled and fell to its knees, and Tym managed to pull the Valerium blade back out of the creature’s skin. It came out easily, in fact, as if repelled by the shadowy flesh. Tym climbed onto the creature’s back, just as Sylva turned and hissed at him, slicing through the air was a sword of his own that cut a deep gash in Tym’s unarmored chest.
Flaming arrows were flying from the walls, no longer fireflies in the night but streaking comets that burned afterimage trails across his vision. They rained down, striking both the Visigony and the Daemon as the light from the torches, the braziers, and Autmaran himself, streamed over the battlefield and broke through their terrible strength.
There is light, Tym smiled, and it shall always win.
He raised up the sword, wrapped two hands around the hilt, and even as he saw Sylva come to take his head, he plunged the blade into the place where the Daemon’s heart should be, parting the inky flesh as if it were true flesh, not the stuff of shadows. Even as the sword sunk home, arrows fell from the sky and pierced Tym in the shoulder, the knee, and the forearm. They burned, and made him hurt more than he’d ever hurt before, but the fire also touched the Daemon, and that was good.
The Daemon screamed again, writhing around the blade, and then pulled inward with a rush of shadows, knocking Sylva aside. The Air Daemon dove, brushing aside the arrows the Kindred shot at it, ready to crash into the gate one final time –
The Shadow Daemon exploded into a thousand razor-sharp shards of darkness that shot over all the field before the gate, dropping the enemy in droves, and piercing the side of the Air Daemon as it soared by overhead, leaving it to crash head-first into the wall. Jaillin and his remaining force attacked it, spitting it with Valerium blades, pulling the final Visigony from its back, and the Daemon disappeared in a huge gale of wind that rushed up and into the sky.
The final image Tym saw as the blood drained out of the hundreds of cuts all over his body was of the Kindred cheering, and Autmaran staring, astonished, at what had been, barely fifteen minutes prior, a battle the Kindred had no hope of winning.
I’m the helper.
Tym smiled, and died happy, knowing it was true.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Exiled Guardian
“TOMAZ – ON YOUR LEFT!”
Tomaz turned and swung Malachi without the slightest hesitation; the huge swath of steel ripped into and through the body of a Death Watchman with a sickening crunch that severed the construct’s spine and broke the enchantment holding it to life.
“Shadows and fire!” Tomaz roared. “How many of them are there?”
“Enough to keep us busy, that’s for damn sure!” Leah shouted back.
The Exile girl’s daggers flew through the air, deadly foot-and-a-half steel spikes, and sank into the neck of two separate Guardians held up in battle with a dozen Kindred. The giant men collapsed; the group of Exiles gave out a ragged cheer, and moved on.
“Tomaz!” called Leah. “Anything look familiar?”
“I’ve been gone for twenty years!” he shouted back, saving a soldier from decapitation with a quick backhand slice that ended an Imperial life. “I think the best I can do is point us on in a general ‘that way’ direction!”
Leah’s daggers whizzed past him, sinking into the eyes of two separate archers with bows trained on Tomaz’s back.
“Wait – look!”
Tomaz turned and saw soldiers herding men and women out of their homes, pushing them through the streets with frantic haste as they eyed the approaching Exile force. Leah and Tomaz both launched into motion.
Arrows rained down, and he realized there were archers stationed on the rooftops.
“Leah – up!”
He pulled up short and held his hands out and down. They’d done this a dozen times before, and the moves were almost mechanical now. She ran for him, landed both feet in the cradle of his hands, and pushed off just as he launched her with a huge full-body throw. Powered by the Aspect of Strength, the Exile girl shot up to the height of the rooftop in a matter of seconds, caught the archer, and threw him down into the street as she switched places with him. She dashed off along the rooftops, already throwing her daggers out before her as she went, the steel blades winking in the harsh chemical lamppost lights.
Tomaz continued on below, leading the surging tide of Kindred as they crashed into the group of soldiers separating them from the Commons. Malachi cut through the air left and right, and the soldiers, barely two score, shouted and broke as soon as the full weight of the Kindred force crashed down on them.
“Run for the main gate!” Tomaz shouted to the gathered Commons, all of whom seemed ready to go anywhere but the way they were being forced. They began to stream past him, and were shepherded toward the front of the city by a number of mounted Scouts who appeared from the south side of the city and began to ride alongside them like sheep dogs protecting their flock.
By the Veil, I hope Autmaran’s secured that gate.
Tomaz and a large bulk of the Kindred chased the fleeing soldiers down a side street, and then through a series of alleyways, trying to catch them before they managed to regroup. They caught up to them as they rounded a final bend, and though they turned to fight him with the determination of men who knew their time was up, the Kindred made short work of it.
The final man fell to the ground before him. He turned, trying to discern his location, and saw he and his gathering force were now in the shadow of the Fortress itself. Old, old memories came back to him as he took in the faded stone and mortar of the street, saw the slightly crooked path it took. He knew this street, knew this view of the Fortress. The Blade Masters trained in the central tower, behind the one he now faced. This was the way they took through the sprawling city, the quickest way to get from the main gate through the towers.
I knew where I was going all along.
He turned, scanning the hundreds of faces along the road behind him.
Where’s Leah?
The thought came to him out of the hazy shadows of confusion left when the heat of battle faded. He scanned the rooftops and saw her nowhere. That didn’t make sense – she must have followed him. It was an incongruity that couldn’t quite penetrate his thoughts to the level of understanding; when they fought, they were always near each other. How had they been separated?
“Where’s Leah?” he asked the nearest man to him, a Rogue bearing the dagger sigil of an Eshendai. He was holding his shoulder, where he had tried to tie a scrap of his own uniform across the bleeding gash left by an enemy sword.
“I haven’t seen her since she went up on the roofs,” the man gasped back.
The roaring call of a charging force ended their brief conversation, and both of them snapped their heads around to see a fresh wave of Imperials emerging around the corner of the long, circular boulevard to the right of the alleyway. Tomaz gritted his teeth and raised his sword. The Kindred followed suit, and as one they burst onto the main boulevard and hit the force of Guardians and soldiers in the flank. He broke through the line easily, and dispatched a number of Guardians who were all taken completely off-guard by his disproportionate strength. He saved a dozen Kindred and gained more strength, and used it to redouble his efforts. They pushed the force back, the Kindred shouting and advancing.
They emerged again onto the long circular boulevard that curled around the city, and suddenly Tomaz was having déjà vu. Memories of this patch of the city came back to him with a sudden shock, and he remembered running down
this street as a child, remembered too the fist of Guardians who had come one morning to take him away.…
He snapped out of the memories just in time to see a group of Guardians retreating down a side street, breaking off into smaller fragments that would be hard to follow.
“This way!” Tomaz roared, gesturing toward the side street. The Kindred followed him without question, Tehanyu and Likal, the Eshendai-Ashandel pair of officers below Leah and himself, spread the word, and were the first to run to his side as he disappeared down the street.
He remembered this road. He had walked it over and over.
First as a Guardian … and one last time as a Blade Master.
That train of thought led him back to Leah, and he felt again her absence. She wasn’t dead – she couldn’t be. He would know, he was sure of it. Somehow, he would know.
They met another group of Defenders and cut through them with little trouble. They burst out of the side street back onto the circular boulevard, now much farther inside the city. They were in a section of the industrial complexes with smokestacks that pushed against the sky and disappeared into the haze that hung just below the clouds.
The Fortress loomed before them, only a few streets away.
“Attack!”
The sound came from Tomaz’s left and he turned as one of the larger bands of guardsmen rushed toward them. The Kindred force moved to meet them, but as they did, Tomaz heard the scrape of boots on stone and the rattle of unsheathing swords to his right. He turned and saw they were caught in a vise. He went for the second group as most of the Kindred turned left, and passed through them, cutting down two men in a single swing and sending another half dozen running wide around him. He brought up Malachi again and moved forward –
“Leave that one; he’s mine!”
Tomaz froze as he heard the booming rumble of a voice, a sound that shook his bones even over the tumult of battle. He turned, and had to raise his eyes; the man standing across from him was his own height, not the shorter stature of even most of the Guardians. He wore plate armor with spikes at the elbows, shoulders, and heels, and shone bright white even in the dim light of the torches. The best of the Blade Masters took pride in wearing white armor to battle, armor that would show their skill in killing. Only those who were inelegant, only those base enough to be called soldiers, had to kill while spilling blood on themselves.
