“Where are the clerics?” Luthan asked, interrupting her.
“In the back,” she replied, catching her breath. “Why?”
“I have an idea.” And Luthan took off.
If Necromancy was at play and some kind of undead creature controlled the others, it was probably a lich of some sort. And if there was a lich, it meant magic was involved somehow. Luthan knew this. It was one thing he knew that could help. The only way to fight the undead was pure divination. Clerical powers, and a lot of it. Starting with blessed weapons. Normal iron or steel would have no effect on undead creatures. These needed to be burned or banished. Burning, he could take care of that. Banishing? Weapons blessed by Varkadian clerics, that was what they needed. He needed to find these clerics and get as many blacksteel swords blessed as possible. There was a way to fight, and they had better hurry before they lost the city for good.
Cayne assisted with securing civilians in Congregation chambers. The cathedral was large enough to house thousands of people. The Wolf Pack would use the catacombs as a base. The clerics immediately started blessing swords. Weapons of blacksteel now glimmered with sparks of divine light. In the meantime, Jules and Berius brought Luky’s body to an empty bed in the infirmary. A sindur nun recited a silent prayer for the catling. She promised to watch over his body while they freed the city. Berius left to help with whatever he could in the nave. He needed to think of something else, or he would go insane himself.
Jules found himself alone in one of the antechambers. He leaned first against the wall, then let himself collapse to the floor. He hugged his knees, burying his face between them, and released all the tears he could. Little did he know, Cayne had also isolated herself, in the infirmary, finally daring to lay eyes on Luky’s body, and she was doing exactly the same.
Phorus Adal
18
Necropolis
Word of the Wolf Pack retreating to Congregation grounds had already reached General Corax’s ears. He had already lost men at the battle for the Castle of Gold, but he would send what he had left to the cathedral. He had no other choice. The Undead King was already at his door.
Corax had just become aware that Phorus Adal had claimed that title. Back when Phorus had been a member of the Academy’s Council, Corax had always known him as nervous and erratic. A concerned wizard who knew the world of today could be better. His ideas had been revolutionary. Rebuild the city, better houses, a new irrigation system, streetlights that drew energy directly from the sun. Technology. His intelligence and vision were his only credentials and the only reasons why General Corax had associated with him.
Why did it have to go this far? Sure, Bravoure needed cleansing, but an undead army?
Phorus sauntered over the castle’s drawbridge, alone. Whatever followed him had been told to stay behind. The castle looked beautiful in the darkness of night. The gold-plated towers appeared silver. The lights inside were like tiny stars. Phorus wondered, for a second, whether the general would be impressed. Not that it mattered anyway, for the endgame.
Phorus raised his hands to the sky above. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The general looked to him with cold, stern eyes. He was always so lively and stubborn. Now, there was a flash of fear embedded in his gaze. Phorus looked just as he did all those years ago, but his skin was devoid of colors, and his glassy eyes glistened in the night.
“What is this?” General Corax asked, his voice was sore.
He was not amused. His shoulder was damned painful, and that was enough already. They had a deal. The rebel forces would be crushed. But he had never imagined they would be crushed by this.
“This is power, my friend,” Phorus said. “I have an army of undead at my feet...and the Avatar of Mort.”
In the distance, the void dragon roared, sending chills down the general’s neck.
“You said to go to war,” he spat, panting. “To bring them all here so your cult could take them down. You never said anything about the undead.”
Corax pointed at the Undead King’s chest like he was accusing him of betrayal or something worse. Phorus did not like that at all. If he was to be spoken to, it would have to be with the respect he deserved—the respect he had never received before.
How much does it take to get one’s attention at the brink of the apocalypse, when one has been warning of an impending doom for so long? The magi certainly had not listened. Phorus Adal, a mysticist at heart, had been one of the greatest contributors to Bravoure’s development. But when he had taken note of undead sightings, he had pleaded with the Council of Archmagi to do something. If only they had listened, maybe he would have spared them, spared their fate. They had chosen to ignore him. Phorus, reduced to a mere adept alchemist position—a failure, really—had seen what Bravoure was becoming. He had been the only one to see. And he had chosen to join the undead tide—servitude was always a better alternative to extinction.
War against Iskala broke out, and the Academy turned a blind eye. Like they had done with him. Like they had done with the dokkalfar cleansing.
Like they had done with the Rule of Sharr.
The general was too crazed to be allowed to continue, but he was gullible and manipulable. He was the vessel for a grander operation. Bravoure had to be stopped. It was time for a reckoning.
And those insurgents—terrorists? They know nothing. They wished to restore Bravoure to what it used to be, but no! Bravoure had been an unstable kingdom of poisoned monarchy, with envy and blame lurking in the shadows of the common people. Bravoure needed to change. To start over anew. The land was to be cleansed by its own victims, the dead buried beneath Bravan soil, before the living would be allowed to walk again.
Phorus raised his chin. He was shorter than General Corax, but in that instant, where the sight of the Undead King overwhelmed this mere mortal, he was taller than anyone else.
“I didn’t have to say anything,” Phorus finally retorted. “You of all people should know what need-to-know means.”
The general shook his head frantically. “I’ve done everything you asked—”
“And I thank you for that.”
Corax lost his composure. He started shouting as anger filled his veins. “What is going to happen now? You said you’d destroy them. Well, go! They’re hiding in the cathedral. Take it down!”
With one flick of the Undead King’s hand, the general rose above the ground. An invisible force caught him by the neck and pressed against his throat. He could barely breathe.
“Do you know what happens when prey seeks shelter in a place it can’t escape?” Phorus asked, his voice smooth and almost comforting.
Corax struggled against the invisible hand that gripped him. He tried to fend it off but he was too weak. He wriggled in the air like a worm about to be eaten by a bloodthirsty eagle. His arms drew erratic waves in the empty air.
“It starves,” Phorus answered his own question.
After that, he let the general go, who fell on his back and began cowering away. Phorus did not care anymore. He had no time for pleasantries, no time to waste on explaining what his plan had been all along. He would let the general retreat to his golden tower.
And he would let him starve to death, just as the terrorists would.
* * *
“Blessed is the blade, blessed is the steel, I purge this sword in Varko’s light, for this hero may end the blight,” Sister Giselle whispered softly, holding a sword in her hands. One of many she had just blessed with the holy word of the god-king Varko.
There was one Red Cardinal with her, Father Roderick. The old man had retreated into a corner, squirming in fear of what was happening outside. He refused to help with the blessing, shouting inanities that their fate had been sealed and they could not run from it. The rest of his posse hid in the castle, somewhere. Sister Giselle had little care for them. These greedy men preaching the scriptures had done nothing but serve themselves in the past. When Giselle had finally seen them for the selfish creatu
res they were, she had joined the Wolf Pack.
She handed the weapon to the next fighter in line. It was Jules. The weapon gleamed golden as he swung it through the air. He could feel a certain power radiate from it, but it was not like magic. It was soothing and calm, perhaps like the power he had felt wielding the Royal Claymore. Could these be related? The clerics most certainly seemed to think so.
Cayne had shown them the weapon’s effects, and they had instantly recognized it as being divine. So had Luthan. The tall elf waited for Jules, leaning against a marble column, away from the line of fighters. He had been thinking while he waited, but not about the battle or the plague that raged outside cathedral walls. His mind had been set on one thing. The same image that whirled over and over in his mind.
Ahna. Where she was, and how long it would take before she would return. If she would even return.
“You said Meriel knew how to stop this?” he asked once Jules had rejoined him.
It caught Jules a little by surprise. He had not expected that question. “I don’t know the details, but essentially, yes.”
“When did she leave?”
Jules ran his fingers through his messy blond hair, thinking, calculating. “About a week ago.”
Luthan sucked air in through his teeth. It was too hard for him to deal with this. “The Chasm isn’t far.” He shook his head, looking at the ground. “She’s probably already there. I just hope she...”
Jules put his hand on Luthan’s shoulder. The tall elf looked at him, his eyes expressing more worry than anything else.
“She’ll come back,” Jules assured. “If there’s one person who can escape Hell, it’s Ahna.”
Luthan stared at Jules for a moment until he realized that he was actually smiling. Hearing Jules speak this way about his wife brought him comfort. He felt glee, relieved that she was friends with someone like him. Jules had a hot temperament, but hope was what guided him. Hope that he would succeed in whatever he undertook at the time. And in this case, it was a revolution, once again. Something Luthan had run from. Something he had not been able to face and that had cost him the love of his life.
They ran out of weapons to bless. Wolves and mercenaries alike united in the cathedral’s nave, ready to open the gates and storm the city. Anir’s shamans stood at the backline, murmuring ancient prayers to protect themselves from the undead curse. They had been warned. Anyone who died on the battlefield in eternal night would become the blight itself. They had to be careful. And Luthan would use his fire to burn anything that fell on city soil.
Cayne found Azera by the altar in the nave. She was looking at the tapestry pinned to the wall, the gold-embroidered depiction of the white dragon-god and his progeniture. No one addressed her. Everyone left her alone like she did not exist. Like she was a lingering shadow of an old scar. Azera Condor was the monarch that had promised so much but had done so little. It was not her fault, really, and Cayne knew that. Azera had tried changing the system, only to be barred by the Chamber of Choices or the Congregation, or the military itself. Cayne had blamed Azera in the past, and now that she saw the look of dread in the monarch’s eyes, she felt nothing but remorse. The woman in front of her was broken, shattered by the false hope that Bravoure’s leader could have made a difference and the realization that she could never have been more wrong.
The two women hugged. Cayne wanted to tell her so much, but no words escaped her lips. Azera filled the silence with words in Cayne’ ear, phrases like, “I wish I had done more,” or “Why has it come to this?” Cayne did not care to listen; she was relieved Azera was alive.
Cayne delved into her blue eyes and tried to soothe her. “We can still recover from this. We won’t go down without a fight, and I have faith.”
Faith was one Hell of a word to be spoken within these walls. Faith was what had kept her going all these years. Faith was what had brought her here.
Azera took Cayne’s face in her hands. Her gaze searched deeper than her copper eyes, maybe for an old friend or a reflection of what they had once shared. The two women had denied themselves the luxury of lingering on their old friendship for years, consumed by rivalry or blame between two instances that were sworn enemies, the Wolf Pack and the Crown. But in that brief moment of peace inside the cathedral, Azera saw Cayne for what she had once been. A friend, and a lover.
“I missed you,” Azera said in a soft and broken voice. “I never stopped missing you.”
Cayne inhaled deeply, denying those wistful tears the right to rise. “I never quite healed from you leaving Dalgon.”
“We both had different fates.”
Cayne sighed. “Look at where those fates have brought us.”
Azera let Cayne go. The Wolves, now blessed soldiers, were ready in the nave. Everyone waited for the order. Cayne took one last glance at Azera, offering a reassuring smile that she would come back and maybe they could talk. Maybe they could...catch up on what they both had missed. She turned back to face the path ahead and marched toward the front gates.
Cayne raised the Royal Claymore that weighed little more than a feather and burst in radiance like a star. A battle cry sang through her lips. The gates opened to the silence of the city of undead.
They took the western road through the Dwellunder highlands that bordered Ahnunak at full gallop. They managed to tread down the streets before their father’s forces arrived. They were too fast to be stopped by the guards at the Frontier, who had no idea yet what was going on. The siblings escaped through the gate and traveled by horse until the gorge became too small for the nightmare stallion that carried them. They let go of the horse and finished the ascent of the cave on foot, as fast as they could. No matter how tired they felt, they had to keep going. Ahna had a bad feeling about whatever was happening at the surface, but she was so relieved to feel the Sol’s rays once again brush against her dawn blue skin.
Once they were finally out of the Chasm, Ahna halted her run to catch her breath. She was absolutely exhausted. She collapsed on the grass, clenching the blades beneath her hands to check if they were real. The air here was so fresh. It felt so good to be out of that horrible place.
Thamias went to sit on the nearest stone and buried his face in his hands. That was his way to sort his thoughts.
Ahna raised her head to the horizon, to the west. She wanted to check on the capital, if she could see it from here. What she saw drew the life out of her.
She gasped, instantly rising to her feet. Thamias checked where she looked.
What they saw could not be explained by arcane laws or anything natural. It was a dome of whirling darkness covering the capital, blanketed by a brooding storm. Silent flashes of lightning cracked the clouds open, but the darkness remained undisturbed.
The eternal night above the ruins of Antaris had not seemed as defined as what she saw now. Ahna knew what this meant. Whatever awakening she had heard the Priestess of Mort speak of had already happened, and it had taken the night with it. And it was exactly where Ahna needed to go. She checked the talisman she still held in her hand. It glowed blue, but the wings were slowly unchaining themselves. She had little time. She turned to Thamias, her lungs filling with angst. He stood beside her, watching the horizon for himself.
“We don’t have enough time,” Ahna murmured, her lips trembling. They really did not. On foot, it would take more than a day to reach the capital.
She knew Thamias had no care for this. She could not blame him. Sud, to the south of the Chasm, beyond the forest, was untouched. Why would he care for the capital? Thamias had no reason to be afraid. He was the golden dragon, and an army of the dead would not scare him away. The fate of Bravoure was not a variable he would take into account when weighing his survival.
But he was indeed the golden dragon. The Bravoure of today was different, but the Bravoure of the past had welcomed him with open arms. That was what he could think about. He could settle on that thought to motivate himself to act. And that was the reason why he now
looked at Ahna with a golden flicker lighting his amber eyes. He had gone this far with her, and he needed a fight. That would give him something to do. That would keep him distracted from the image of his father’s face and the sound of the man’s voice before he had ended his life.
Maybe Bravoure City was more than a day away on foot, but what about by flight?
“Step aside,” Thamias said, handing Ahna his satchel, which she strapped to her chest opposite hers. Cracks of gold spread through his face.
Ahna knew what was to happen—Thamias was about to change. She took a few steps back and observed her brother’s transformation. Light leached through his scars. His eyes and hair became gold. A holy radiance engulfed his body that grew and grew into the outline of a large beast. Unlike the ones Ahna had seen in the past, this transformation was peaceful, like it was meant to be.
Once he had turned into the golden dragon of legends, Thamias turned his scaled back to his sister and waited. As much as she wanted to keep it close, Ahna needed to secure the soul sigil before taking flight. Either satchel simply would not do—too much risk of it falling out. She opened her leather corset slightly and fixed the talisman in the crook of her chest, against her skin, close to her heart. She inhaled deeply, praying that she would not lose it. She could not bear to lose it.
Ahna began to climb. She could use Thamias’s scales as support like she climbed a rocky cliff. She had done it once in her life, fifty-years something ago. She remembered that moment. It was blurry in her mind, but the sensation was like nothing else. Ahna reached the back of his long neck. She could feel his heartbeat underneath her. She could hear it too.
She latched onto the crest on his neck and braced herself. She needed to hold on as tight as she could to keep her balance. Because when Thamias took flight, she would be propelled downward, and it would require all her strength to stay atop him.
Tempest of Bravoure Page 25
