Impact of the Fallen: The White Mage Saga #4 (The Chronicles of Lumineia)

by Ben Hale

  They used the energy in the room to yank the sword between the dwindling foes, slaughtering them all. When the last fell the sword clattered to the floor, the sound muffled by the pile of Voidling flesh.

  Then Iris turned to the door leading to the wind lift. Her hands charged, she sent a ripple through the room that caused lightning to arc across the doorway. Wolf and the remaining SEALs stumbled back and covered their eyes as pure energy filled the opening, barring the way for the Harbingers on the lift.

  "Let's go," Iris snarled to Wolf. "We have a job to do."

  The pain in her voice matched her regret, but there was also a fire that burned. Staring at her, Wolf felt a shift in his perspective. Small and thin, she was not a teenage girl. She was a soldier. He reached out and took her place in supporting Linda. Then he issued orders.

  "Peterson, hold position with Bravo. Don't let them get through the door. Wilson, Jameson, you're with me." He dropped his empty magazine and reloaded. "Let's clear the way. Trigger the explosives."

  The C4 they'd placed ignited a titanic blast that shook the Spirus to the core. Harbingers were shredded. Wounded and dead littered the wind lift with chunks of burning rock. The Harbingers were quick to regroup, but the damage had been done.

  Iris and the SEALs were in.

  Chapter 43: The Swordsman

  The Swordsman awoke when the floor trembled. He sat up to a dull whine and the echo of conflict. He grunted in anger, and yanked against his chains. They did not give. Abandoning the effort, he listened to the mounting sounds of battle until he could bear it no longer.

  He ground his teeth together and resolved to escape. Not for the first time he pondered the woman Indigo's words to him. She'd called him Swordsman, so he assumed that was his skill. Then her comment about his magic came back to him. As if drawn to the words, his thoughts settled on her parting comment. On the outside it didn't appear special, but the phrase about his power stuck in his skull like a knife.

  Why were the words important? Did they carry some hidden meaning he was supposed to understand? Or was it just a reminder of what he faced? If nothing else it had told him that he had some sort of power. But what type?

  On impulse he drew a slow breath and looked within himself. What he found surprised him. Bound and imprisoned, he felt a well of strength within him that churned with power. He climbed to his feet and leaned against the chains.

  Driven by instinct and anger, he drew from the well within. Energy and strength surged into his muscles, empowering his strength far beyond his physical capacity. The chains shimmered in response, sapping his magic almost as fast as he could summon it. The siphoning left him weak, but he tried again.

  This time he coiled his magic deep inside his body, until his skin began to quiver. Then he brought his arms back and prepared himself. He did not pause to consider what would happen if he failed, that doing so would break his arms. His foes had imprisoned him. Retribution would be his.

  He tasted blood as his magic burned hot within him. Only when he thought he would burst did he unleash it. Brownish light swirled up his legs and wrapped around his torso, tightening like bands of steel. The chains struggled to siphon it off, but could not do so fast enough. In a single mighty lunge he threw himself forward.

  —one of the chains snapped, sending a link rebounding around the room. Turning toward the remaining chain, the Swordsman grasped it with both hands. Bracing his feet, he threw himself backward with a muted growl on his lips. The second chain groaned—and then burst apart.

  His chest heaving from the exertion, The Swordsman strode to the door with his mangled shackles dangling from his wrists. Clasping his hands together, he spun them in a whirling circle as he advanced, and struck the door with all the force he could muster. It shuddered in its moorings, but held. He repeated the motion, and then again. On the third attempt the door's wood gave.

  Splitting near the handle, the door parted from the locking mechanism. The Swordsman stepped into a kick that shattered the door. In a rending of wood and metal it was thrown to the opposite side of the hall. His heart pounding, the Swordsman stepped free.

  Shouts rang out, indicating that someone had heard the cacophony of his escape. Picking up the pace, he accelerated in their direction. Other cells blurred as he passed them by. He barely registered the occupants’ surprised faces before he passed them. At the end of the hall he reached a door just as it swung open.

  He smashed into it, sending the man on the other side sprawling into the guardroom. Instinct took over from there. Spinning the sparking chains like flails, the Swordsman smashed one man as he tried to rise. Blood blossomed on his cheek as he went down. The Swordsman leapt to the second. Wrapping a chain around his neck, he gave a savage yank. By then the last had gotten to his feet. His features twisted in anger, the man stretched his hand to the floor between them.

  The floorboards shifted and bent, and then erupted in splinters. Beams and studs tore themselves free and curved upward. Then they fused together. Pincers and a spiked tail appeared as it became a wooden scorpion. The Swordsman dived to the side as the tail whipped toward him. It pierced the wall and withdrew, coiling for a second strike. The Swordsman didn't wait.

  Spinning a chain, he flowed his magic into speed, and sidestepped the spike as it streaked toward his heart. As it impacted the wall he wrapped his chain around the tail and yanked sideways, snapping the wood in half.

  The scorpion released an odd scratching sound as if it were wounded. Then it withdrew its shortened stub. The Swordsman caught the embedded tip and yanked it free. Then he flicked it like a knife toward the remaining mage. The man dodged and moved to reengage . . . but the Swordsman wasn't there.

  The guard's confusion cost him. Sliding under the scorpion's legs brought the Swordsman inches from his opponent, and he rose to his feet with the chain coiled around his fist. The man's eyes widened in surprise and he tried desperately to turn the scorpion around.

  Throwing his magic into the blow, the Swordsman smashed his chained fist into the man's skull. The punishing blow sent him to the floor, from which he did not rise. The scorpion crumbled into shards of wood as its caster perished.

  For a long moment the Swordsman stared at the bodies at his feet, inwardly struggling with what he'd just done. He'd killed three men in a matter of seconds—and without conscious thought. He was evidently capable of extreme damage. At the same time it was not guilt he felt. They were his enemy. Their fate was made certain the moment they had caged him.

  Turning away from the corpses, he searched the room until he found a way to remove his shackles. Once they clanked to the floor he departed, intent on finding a way out.

  The walls were made of layered bricks, and they trembled from the conflict raging outside. Lit by occasional floating lights, their surface was gray with age, matching the musty odor of the corridor. No side tunnels curved away, and he followed the hallway through several turns. At every moment he scanned the walls, searching for some clue as to where he was or who had captured him.

  He felt robbed, as if something precious had been taken from him. He paused to regain control over his seething anger. The shadows flickered around him, seeming to reflect his dark intentions.

  Then he noticed a symbol.

  On a nondescript section of the wall there was a small dagger emblazoned on the stones. His eyes were drawn to it, and he came to a halt to examine the mark. Forced to squint, he scanned it, trying to identify why it felt so familiar.

  It did not appear to be painted on the wall, or inscribed on the rock itself. To his surprise it faded if he moved a step away. Only when he was close did the shadows coalesce into the unmistakable shape of a weapon. His curiosity piqued, he reached out to it.

  His touch caused the dagger to flicker, and the shadows shifted. As if his hand knew what to do, his fingers reached around the shadowy blade and pulled it from the wall. To his surprise one of the stones came free, revealing a secret cache containing a small black orb. Its
surface rippled at his touch, and then it reached out and latched onto his fingers.

  On instinct he withdrew, but the shadowy orb turned into threads of magic that climbed up his arm faster than thought. Wherever it went his clothing changed. His sleeve darkened and turned into muted armor, which expanded into his torso. Astonished at the change, he could only watch as the flexible material enveloped his body.

  The weight of weapons expanded to press against his skin. Rather than causing discomfort, their placement felt as natural as his own flesh. A smile creased his features as the magic finished its work, and he felt a subtle shift as an object formed on his back. Without looking he reached to his shoulder and grasped the hilt of a sword.

  He sucked in his breath as a flood of images poured into his mind. The torrent of memories burst across him so quickly he reached to the wall to steady himself. In a matter of moments his entire recollection was complete. His smile widened.

  Even without his memory he'd known where his instincts would lead. Decades of training and study had led him to two inescapable truths regarding this mission. He could not get into the Magtherian without a price, and if he paid it—he could not complete the mission. He'd planned for his equipment and memories to be stored where he would find them.

  Now he could kill his target.

  Chapter 44: Iotian

  Iris led them through a pair of doors and a crystalline hallway. With every step she did her best to contain her anger. Witnessing the carnage first hand had been disturbing, and it was taking all of her willpower to contain her emotions. When she reached the end she paused and leaned close to Wolf.

  "Once we are inside I'm going to draw Keidon into an Iotian. Once I have engaged him it will be up to you to clear the room. Whatever you do, don't touch either one of us."

  "What's an Iotian?" Wolf asked.

  "It's a duel between techno mages," Linda said. She was holding a burn on her side, and Wolf shifted to support her better.

  "Don't get in the way," Iris said. "Oh, and my allies inside are wearing blue. Don't kill them." Wolf nodded, and Iris was glad to see the respect in his eyes.

  Took him long enough.

  He racked the slide on his weapon and spoke into his radio. "Not all are combatants, so aim to incapacitate. Blue shirts indicate friendlies."

  Iris hinged the herlion curse and then motioned the others into the open doorway. She wouldn't have admitted it, but the camouflaged painted SEALs fascinated her—and terrified her. The Battlemage Corps made a point of appearing imposing, but they had become more like a police force over the years. The men around her were soldiers, professionals at one thing—killing.

  Iris, the bats are raking the auren fleet, we need to boost the charms protecting them.

  I got it, Jerry replied. Amping the Groniun charm now.

  Iris clenched her eyes shut against the rising headache. It was taking all her willpower to keep the mountain of messages at bay. Every second that passed, new comments lined up in her queue, clamoring for attention. Soon they would burst free and bombard her from all directions, effectively shutting off her vision. She fought back with a phrase she had used a lot in the last few days.

  This is my chance to make up for my mother. This is my chance to make things right.

  Turning to Wolf, she motioned him forward. "Let's go, Wolf," she said. They stepped to the door and swung them open into a maelstrom of magic.

  A hundred mages sat facing curved screens of liquid crystal. Images and raw threads flowed across them, the information only understood by skilled techno mages. At a glance Iris saw that half the room was dedicated to maintaining the techno shroud. The other half maintained the charms that kept the city aloft.

  Iris motioned the SEALs toward the side of the room maintaining the techno shroud. She swallowed as she read the truth on the screens they were watching. They were only seconds away from making it impervious. Then she saw why. Two bodies lay on the ground at their stations.

  Both wore blue shirts.

  The SEALs opened fire, and the deafening rattle of gunfire filled the chamber. One thin figure stood up at the sound, his face a mask of fury. Heedless of the stray bullets, he strode toward them, gathering magic in his palms.

  Static energy erupted off the walls, sucking everything metal to them. The gunfire tapered off as the SEALs’ weapons were ripped from their hands. Then Iris stepped forward and launched every ounce of power she possessed at Keidon.

  The volume of threads demanded his attention. He turned on her with a vengeance. Around and behind her the SEALs managed to draw backup weapons and subdue any stragglers, but Iris could not spare them a second look. She fixed her gaze and hammered her power at him.

  The ambient threads in the room bent and twisted into a hurricane of power and crackling energy. Sucked into the fight, the angry threads surged between them. Iris and Keidon became engulfed in twin vortexes as they fought to both defend and attack. One of the screens shattered from the charged air, and then another. Techno mages and SEALs alike dived for cover to avoid the pulsing lightning.

  "Iris," Keidon ground her name out with enough venom to poison an elephant.

  Who did you expect? she responded mentally.

  He sneered at her. You're just a child.

  She issued a dark laugh. For over a year the two of them had sparred across the mage net, but since her captivity among the Harbingers she'd lost her fear of him. The great Keidon was no more than a thin man with greasy hair.

  And yet she could not break his defenses. The curses she cast were rebuffed by the techno shield he'd generated, just as his spells bounced off hers. He bared his teeth at his failure, his eyes burning with disbelief.

  It's not possible. I am the most powerful techno mage that ever lived.

  The words echoed through her consciousness even though Keidon tried to suppress them. With this much invested neither one of them could keep their thoughts to themselves. Iris didn't care.

  Believe it.

  She threw the words at him with barbs of his own curses attached, their sheer power causing him to flinch. His eyes burned with hate and he hit her back, the energy blasting into her mind with crushing force.

  She stumbled—and he pressed into the weakness. Catching the list of messages she'd delayed, he twisted them around and bombarded her with them. The onslaught caused her leg to buckle, and she dropped to one knee, fighting for breath.

  "Why did you ignore your mother?" he said with a sneer. "You have merely driven her away. She has now killed for our cause—and you are to blame. Your mother joined us because of you."

  Stop, she pleaded.

  He began to laugh, haughty and cold as he advanced toward her. The vortex around her tightened, tearing into her clothing and lashing her skin. Scoring deep, it drew blood and a gasp of pain. He came to a halt in front of her and stared down on her trembling form.

  And so the child dies . . .

  Weakened by using so much magic to get into the room, pummeled with thousands of data threads, Iris fought to keep the magic at bay. Inch by inch the vortex closed on her, where it would take her magic and turn it onto her own mind, piercing it with a supreme wave of information. Against someone less powerful she would be knocked out. Against Keidon it would kill her.

  Her plan had worked.

  She flashed a grim smile, causing him to falter. Then she rose to her feet and slugged him with all of her strength. The air exploded from his lungs—and his magic popped like a soap bubble. The churning vortex around his body slammed into his mind. He fell to his knees, coughing for breath and grasping his stomach.

  "I knew we'd be evenly matched, Keidon," she said. "So I practiced something different."

  "You cheated," he groaned.

  "I won," she said.

  And punched him in the face.

  He went down like a brick, and Iris cradled her hand. Who knew hitting someone hurt so bad? Linda darted in and wrapped anti-magic bonds onto his wrists. Wolf appeared at Iris's elbow
as she looked down on her fallen enemy.

  "You could have been a SEAL, Iris."

  She laughed. "I've been planning this Iotian for months, but I never dreamed it would hurt like this." She showed him her hand.

  "Looks like you broke it," he said, but his voice conveyed praise. "Can you still drop the shroud?"

  Wearily she pulsed her magic into the wall of techno screens. Wolf's team had tied all the mages tasked with the shroud's maintenance, so it didn't take her long to find the correct charm and break it.

  "It's done," she said with a sigh.

  "Why don't you report in and then Willis can bandage it?"

  She agreed, but before she could the doors burst open and Peterson's team entered. His arm was bloody as he helped another walk.

  "They retook the chamber," he said. "There was nothing we could do."

  Wolf motioned his men to the door. "Flanking positions," he said. "Our job is to hold this room until the others complete the mission. Iris and Linda, do what you can to help. We make our stand here."

  Linda nodded and stepped to the fore. Her face twisted in pain, she once again cast a gravity shield. Iris focused her magic to contact Tabletop. The signal was weak, so it didn't drown out the sound as the SEALs opened fire. Cradling her hand, she reported in. The moment she was done she turned to help the SEALs hold the room.

  Her life depended on it.

  Chapter 45: Assassin's Duel

  The Swordsman paused at a window and watched the aerial battle unfolding. Beneath the diving bats and streaking planes he could see bursts of magic, indicating that the conflict had spread.

  He turned away from the view and ascended the Spirus. He still had a mission to complete, and wasn't about to let Alice go unpunished. The floor rocked underfoot from the battle, but he did not slow. With every step he was cautious of what he might find, but the tower was disturbingly empty.