No man’s land was overrun by a swarm of Wolves. Swords clattered against one another when the front lines met. As light as a feather, the Royal Claymore sliced through blacksteel sheets like they were made of paper. More arrows rained. Cayne was in time to protect herself, but Helena was not. She was struck at the leg and fell to one knee, still slicing at her opponent.
But the second wave of arrows was the Wolf Pack’s next signal. The artificers loaded the cannons and lit them up, bracing for impact. The blasts roared across the battlefield, boulders coming crashing down on castle walls. The ground shook from their kinetic strike.
And now they had to brace for something else because the Bravan army responded precisely the same way.
Scattered and divided, insurgents ran in all directions to avoid being crushed by the spew of cannons. Luthan was able to take down two or three with scorching missiles. He fought without a staff, which meant his magic could roar freely, disorganized, untethered. Exactly what he needed. By his side, Berius and a set of marksmen took down archers on castle walls one by one, using longbows or stolen arcane pistols. Bravan Army archers were well trained, but mercenaries were so much better. Years of military training were nothing compared to field practice. Nothing prepares one for war, but those fighting down below had lived it.
Another cannonball roared above their heads. Luthan’s eyes lit red, and he used a serpent of flames to ricochet the ball back straight at the castle gates. General Corax had no choice but to dodge the impact and slip onto the battlefield. He clashed swords with Wolves, petty ones who could not match a veteran’s blade, marching to his one and only target. Cayne. If his men did not take that weapon of legends, he would have to take it for himself.
When he reached her, she instantly veered to him, almost slicing his arm if he had not stepped back. She had blood on her face. The blood of his men mixed with her own. Some of her loose black hair stuck to her face.
She glared at him with fierce eyes. “Who were those men with you?” she asked.
Corax’s eyes twitched. He had not expected that question. She could have said anything, but this one took him by surprise.
“They’re your cultists, aren’t they? What are you planning, Corax? This can’t just be it!” They clashed swords and stared each other down.
Corax stepped back again. “Your delusions will be your doom, she-wolf. Tell me”—he swiped his sword—“how is our dear Highness?”
Cayne dodged the blow. She quickly recovered her footing and swung the Royal Claymore once again.
“I know about the undead, Corax,” Cayne said. “You have no idea what powers you are dealing with!”
“Well, neither do you,” Corax spat, pointing at the Royal Claymore. “This is a weapon of legends. It does not belong to some street girl with desperate followers.”
“If they’re coming here, you’re dooming Bravoure for good,” Cayne warned, ignoring his last sentence. “Galies will shine when they get here and only find ashes to stand on!”
Corax laughed instead of responding. He slashed the air with the cadence of a berserker, trying to get Cayne to lose her balance. But she was as skilled as he was.
“You are sending our kingdom to its death!” Cayne shouted.
“Foolish girl!” Corax scoffed. He raised his voice louder. “Galies was never meant to come here. We just wanted to shake the city awake. Get you and your dogs out of the gutter so we could finally end you!”
Cayne parried the next swing of his blade just in time, but the edge cut through her arm. She flinched, keeping it together, but the general’s words lingered in her thoughts.
So it was all a lie? She had been deceived. How could she have been so blind? How could she not have realized that this had all been a ruse? It all made sense. It was never about waging war against Galies. That whole plan was a scapegoat for something darker. It was about putting an end to an insurgent horde, one that had plagued Bravoure in the general’s eyes. It was about crushing any resistance and claiming full ownership over the golden kingdom.
General Corax had sided with a cult for power and control, and his victory was near. Cayne looked around on the battlefield. More Bravan soldiers had surged out of the castle. Most archers had touched ground to fight. Their cannons still roared. Cayne’s men were falling, but some still stood, swiping their swords with all their might. Cayne still had hope, and that hope beamed with the blade of her sword.
* * *
Luky squinted to see far in the distance. His pupils opened to focus his vision. The light of the sun rained onto the Bastion’s parapeted roof where the catling stood. He could hear the battle from here—the clattering of swords and blasts of cannons. He could hear cries and screams coming from far beyond. The Castle of Gold was in flames, blazing like an infernal lighthouse.
He was almost hypnotized by this vision when something else appeared in the corner of his eye, like a slow shadow moving behind him. It loomed slowly over the horizon to the west. Luky first dared not look, but as it invaded his sight, he turned his head and gasped.
It was no cloud. It was much larger than a cloud. A dark shadow growing over the sky, engulfing the landscape into its veil. And it was reaching for the capital.
Luky was alone on the roof. He was the only one seeing it. He hesitated but took the rash decision to hurry down the Bastion’s stairs. He had to get to the battlefield, fast, to warn them about what was coming. Eternal night. Eternal night was on its way. Luky rushed into the streets with the speed of a fireball. It would be impossible to catch him. He headed down the road, straight for the battle. He dashed between soldiers at the battalion’s tail, dodging sharp blades and cannonballs.
“Cayne! Jules!” he called.
For sure, these two would be at the frontline. He had to warn them. He just had to. He knew they would both be furious with him for this, but he had to tell them about the shadow in the sky. About the night that was falling.
“Jules!” he called once more.
The edge of an axe almost hit him. Luky rolled to the floor and stood up again, now running between blacksteel soldiers he could not differentiate. They all looked the same. Bloody, muddy, and stinky. Luky jumped in the air, using one’s back as a launching pad so he could get to the frontline faster. He landed on all fours and legged it until he spotted Berius fighting side by side with Jules and two sharp shortswords.
“Jules!” Luky shouted.
This time, he was heard. Jules turned around, panting, blood dripping out of his mouth. He wiped it off his face when he realized who had called him. His heart stopped. All muscles in his body tensed up and everything started to feel cold. He dropped his two swords in shock. They landed on the sand without making a sound.
“Luky, what the Hell are you doing here?” Jules roared. His voice was a mix of anger and severe worry.
“Jules! They’re coming!” Luky yowled.
Jules could not hear him well, but the boy-lynx was getting closer.
“Luky, get out of here!”
“The night is coming! Look!” Luky pointed at the north-western sky.
Jules followed Luky’s finger with his eyes. He saw it, in the distance, the black halo approaching.
What in Hell is that? “Shit!” he exclaimed. “Get off the battlefield, Luky!”
Luky was about to reach him. He was not turning back. Jules panicked, seeing swords missing the cub by a hair. When the catling was close enough, Jules felt a sense of relief because Luky was almost there. He was almost safe. Jules would protect him, and then he would slice their way out of here and scold him.
But that is not what happened. That is not what would ever happen. Luky’s paw was about to touch Jules’s hand when the arrow struck the boy-lynx in the back. It had come from nowhere. Jules had not even seen or heard its deadly whistle. The arrow point lodged itself in his back and called for blood. Luky fell face first in the sand. Everything became soundless and cold. Jules collapsed to his knees close to his inert body, roaring a sc
reech that echoed louder than all the cannon blasts combined. He fastened the arrow and dragged Luky, crawling away from the fight. He turned the boy-lynx over, using his trembling hand to try and maintain the arrow in place so Luky would not bleed more. But that was not working. Luky bled so much. Too much.
He coughed out blood that stained the white fur of his muzzle. Jules could only see a blur of orange and red past the tears glazing his eyes.
“It’s alright,” Jules said, shaking.
Luky coughed again. His blood splattered on Jules’s leathers.
“Sorry...” The boy-lynx could barely speak. “I had to...I had to warn you. The night...”
Jules hushed him. “Stop talking, Luk, please stop talking.”
He had trouble holding him, pressing his hand on the wound to try and stop the fucking bleeding. Luky’s eyes slowly lost their colors. Jules could not bear it. He would not have it. He held Luky’s face in his hands and forced his eyes to stay open.
“No...no, no, Luky! Stay awake! Stay with me.”
The boy-lynx coughed more.
“Stay with me!” Jules cried.
“Why...” Luky said, his voice rattling. “It hurts.”
“I know, I know. But you have to stay with me, Luk. Stay awake. Stay with me!”
“I...am I dying?”
“No, no, you’re not. You’re staying awake.” Jules cocked his head left and right. “Medic!” he shouted. “We need a medic!” But his call was in vain.
No one came.
Luky’s paw grasped his wrist. It felt so soft and warm, almost comforting. Jules covered it with his free hand.
“You’re not dying,” he assured, but the tremors in his voice said something else.
“I was going to do so much...”
“You still will.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
But after Jules had said these words, Luky’s eyes slowly closed, and the catling took one last breath. His head rolled back, and Jules knew he was gone for good. Gone forever.
Jules could no longer breathe. Every muscle in his body failed him. He held onto Luky like he was clutching a drifting log to stay on the surface and not drown. He looked up, to the sky that was going dark, and howled a cry of anguish.
As he gathered the last pieces of himself, Jules felt the rage inside him. It was growing, boiling, setting his blood on fire. He looked up ahead, at where the arrow had come from. There was but one archer in his line of sight. Jules locked eyes with him.
“He was just a child!” he roared, his voice breaking to shreds.
The man did not flinch.
“Just a child!”
Jules stood up, letting go of Luky’s body, his eyes still piercing through the air. That man, the Bravan soldier who held a mere bow, had just signed a death sentence.
Marching resolute, Jules reached the frontline again. It was like time had slowed down almost to a standstill. He walked among frozen statues of battling soldiers. Cayne was looking right at him. In that split second she had looked away from her fight, she had seen Jules leaving Luky’s body in the sand. She knew exactly where he was headed, and she encouraged him with all her wrath. He had no weapon, so she needed to give him one. The she-wolf shifted her weight to dodge yet another strike from the general, then spun on her heels and launched the Royal Claymore in Jules’s direction. Spinning back, she pulled her arcane pistol out of the holster in her back and shot with no hesitation. The delay between the charging pulse and the actual shot gave Corax enough time to move, but he was still struck in the shoulder. Despite the blacksteel armor, the shock was enough to pull his arm from its socket and make him tumble.
The world fell silent when Jules got a hold of the claymore. He was able to carry it with no effort at all. The blade that had gleamed gold now burned bloodred. It was no longer fueled by hope and vigor but by pure blunt rage. Jules felt a power he had not felt ever before. And it was as though it needed a release. Jules swung the claymore in the archer’s direction, swiping the air as a warning. What erupted from the blade was what he had actually wanted. A fiery projectile flared out of the gold-engraved steel and ripped through the battlefield in crashing thunder. Before Jules realized what had happened, the archer was smitten to cinders in one dying scream.
What in Hell was that weapon he held? Its molten gold radiance lit the battlefield brightly, casting shadows of both armies onto the sandy ground. Jules contemplated them for a short moment, looking at how they moved in the flickers of the Royal Claymore. Only then did he realize the shadows were only possible because the sun itself had disappeared. Jules looked up to the sky at the same time as Cayne and more and more soldiers.
Luthan watched his son carry a young sindur catling in his arms before seeing the sky for himself. It was blacker than the darkest of nights. There were no stars, no moon, just the pitch-black darkness of something most unnatural. He looked to Jules, who held the weapon of kings, the only beacon in this eternal night. Jules had the same wary but clueless look as he did. They peered into each other’s eyes for a minute before they realized the battle had stopped entirely. Both sides were now looking to the sky. Both sides quivered when they heard a screech straight out of a nightmare. The blood-curdling roar shattered the air and was followed by a profound, distressed silence. No one dared to move. Everyone was turned to stone.
15
Hollow
The Hollow Earth exists outside of time and space as we know it. Mortal souls who travel to the Underworld must navigate the river of stars and present themselves before the Divine Justice, a holy creature that weighs the soul and either lets it ascend to the Domain of Stars or sends it down into the maw of Hell. However, some souls refuse this ordeal. Those souls find themselves wandering the Underworld like lost vagabonds searching for a home. Eventually, they get swept away by cleaners, mindless, soulless beings with one sole purpose: to discard. Lost souls are thrown into the Forgotten Plane, a wasteland that draws a hollow shell encasing the Underworld, where all things that do not belong eventually end.
“It isn’t the first time you’ve come here,” a deep and guttural voice said. “It’s good to see you again, Meriel Sharr.”
Ahna looked at its source, a scorched creature without a face, only a mask that ended in coiled and wrinkled horns. Its crooked fingers extended almost to touch the ground. Ahna should have been scared, but she no longer had the luxury of fear. Instead, she swallowed hard and stared at the demon who addressed her.
It takes centuries for souls to lose themselves. When they reach the Hollow Earth, the first thing they do is spend countless years trying to find a way out. They will come up with the most ingenious plans to reach into the black sky, to the distant outline of the Underworld that can be seen far beyond. The sparkles of the river of stars shine like a single tear in a vast sea of nothingness.
Sahalek had been part of the living before the Scriptures of the Old, when Terra was but a world of scattered people praying to pagan beliefs. He had wandered the Hollow Earth for eons before losing himself. The body is easy to forget. The face is the last thing that goes. Hollow souls dig their own hole into their faces, trying to find it again. And that is when they finally tap into a power more obscure than the Forgotten Plane’s sky, breaking the boundary between what is and what will never be. Unnatural to most, innate to them, a power that lies beneath the Fabric of Realms. To tame this power, hollow souls grow their own mask, a reflection of their inner pain. Sahalek’s mask consisted of scars carved into a wooden shell devoid of expression.
“And you’ve been back here, multiple times, and you didn’t even know,” Sahalek said.
The elf scanned her surroundings, this dark wasteland of white sand underneath a black sky. There was no light, no Sol, but she could see the ground extend miles and miles away from her. And she could see the horizon climb into the sky and fade to a haze. She had been here once, long ago, with Xandor and Thamias, when they were young an
d too curious. But Sahalek was right. She had been back here, a few times, in her recent dreams.
“How is this possible?” she asked in a soft and distant voice.
“You and your brothers are bloodbound to me. Now that one of you is dead, your connection here is much stronger. Thamias must feel it too.”
Sahalek’s voice sounded pure, noiseless, like it could stretch across the land and still be heard. Ahna was not in danger in his presence. It was almost comforting, in a twisted way. Sahalek was not evil, unlike some hollow souls that had even breached into the tangible world and made it into history.
“You know why I’ve come here?” Ahna wondered out loud.
Sahalek exhaled through his mouthless mask. “You want to find the Rover. He has wandered this place for decades; I don’t think you realize what you’ll find.”
“Then please tell.”
“It’s better if I show you.”
Sahalek sauntered away from Ahna. The white sand beneath them felt like a thin sheet of silk under her boots. Far in the distance, she could see the outline of mountains and leafless trees. It was as though these figures were made from the memories of those who wandered here. They walked for what felt like hours, across the dunes, until the outline of mountains drew closer and came just in reach.
Sahalek led Ahna beneath a smooth cliff without form, to the entrance of a small cave. Sounds were coming from inside, distant whispers that did not make much sense. Ahna looked at Sahalek, wondering why exactly he had brought her here. But deep down, she knew. She could feel his presence clearer than any time before. She could not explain it, but it started to make sense. She had always been able to feel him, ever since the events high in Gurdal, where the sentinels fly. Ever since the time they had become bound to each other beyond the tangible world.
Cedric was inside. She just knew.
Ahna walked into the cave with careful steps. The tunnel did not stretch far. It ended in a chamber where a fire of white flames crackled.
Tempest of Bravoure Page 20
