Justan’s chest was pounding. He drew his swords and was relieved when the calm of his left sword took over, clearing his mind. His right sword buzzed with energy, eager to release the emotions it had been storing since Justan arrived at the school.
The world slowed around him and Justan saw everything clearly. A barricade loomed in front of him and Justan didn’t slow his charge. He swung his right sword and the moment his blade touched wood, he released the power stored within. The barricade exploded outwards, pelting the mutating men beyond in a shower of pointed stakes and splinters.
Justan ran among the enemy, knowing he was now leading the charge.
A large green-skinned monster was his first target. Its torso was bulging and misshapen, its arms hanging low to the ground with fists like knotted roots. Its body had been punctured in multiple places by shards of wood.
Justan stabbed deep into its leg with his left sword, absorbing its pain and confusion. Then he spun and sliced into its hip with his right sword and released its pain back at it in an explosion that tore it nearly in half.
He turned and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Sir Lance shear the arm off a wolf-like beast. The rest of the men were pouring through the breach in the barricade Justan had created. Many of them set to work clearing more barricades to the side.
A tall spindly beast with a trunk-like torso and insectile limbs swung a spiked arm at him. Justan arched his back and let the arm pass mere inches above his face, then sliced his left sword into the joint at its knee. Its emotions flooded into the sword and Justan had a brief moment of understanding. These men of Ewzad’s were frightened by the changes inside them. This one hadn’t known what the wizard’s power would do to him.
Justan’s blade sheared through the joint and the beast fell. Justan left it there for the others to deal with and sought out another. A beast with the body of a lizard and head that seemed to be a mass of teeth with eyes darted out of the smoke towards him. This one moved fast.
Justan focused and time slowed even further for him. The beast wasn’t so fast anymore. He thrust his left sword forward towards its eye and let the beast run right into his blade. He had another flash of insight. This one had known what Ewzad’s power inside it could do. It had transformed once before and embraced the feeling that came when its body changed. These thoughts flickered through Justan’s mind for mere fractions of a second before the tip of his sword passed through its eye socket and into the brain beyond.
Justan spun and pulled the sword out of its head as he watched the oncoming charge of a truly enormous monster. It was three times Justan’s height and shaped like a centaur. It had four trunk-like legs and a lower body covered in thick gray folds of skin, its upper body was that of a giant with a lumpy half-melted head.
It reached down for him. Justan dodged its grasping fingers and swung his right sword into the beast’s front leg. The resulting blast blew off its foot and the monster reared back, its ragged stump spewing blood. Justan ran under it and thrust his left sword into its underbelly. He absorbed its pain and rage as he ran forward, slicing along, letting its insides fall to the ground behind him.
Justan fell into a rhythm, absorbing emotion with his left sword and expelling it with his right. The mutated monsters could not move fast enough to hurt him and their grotesque nature held no fear for him. He understood them now.
He moved faster as his confidence built, his senses enhanced to their utmost. He could see every detail of the enemy around him, hear the sounds of the battle, and pick out where each sound came from. He could feel the weight of his swords change as they passed through different types of flesh. He realized that he wasn’t tired. He didn’t even need to draw energy from Gwyrtha.
His eyes shifted. Lines of white energy mixed with blue and gold had sprung out in every direction, connecting him to each monster. This was very much like the armed combat test in the academy arena nearly two years ago. He didn’t understand how he was doing it, but he was pulling energy from the crowd around him.
His sword’s names came to him then. It should have been obvious a long time ago. Their names were in their natures. His left sword was Peace, his right sword Rage, and when he held them, Justan was a whirling mix of both. The enemy fell around him like they were nothing, some glassy eyed and confused, others blown to pieces. He was might and magic, calm and action; he was Edge and he was unbeatable.
Justan! came Gwyrtha’s frightened voice.
Justan! shouted Fist.
A centipede-like monster with human arms instead of legs rose before Justan. Rage blew off its head and Justan ran along its back as it melted. What?
You’re out there alone, Fist said. Justan got the sense that the ogre was in a pitched fight of his own and that his berserker unit was losing.
Justan glanced back over his shoulder in their direction. He could see nothing but the hulking forms of other monsters. Somehow he had lost track of the others. Where was the rest of his unit?
I’m coming back, Justan sent. He dodged a monster’s spear-like appendage and ran back the way he had come, following the trail of melting bodies. Gwyrtha stay with the cavalry. Don’t come for me!
Mutated beasts were in his way, their backs turned to him as they pushed to reach the front lines. Justan cut them down from behind, slicing out hamstrings and blowing legs off entirely. They crumpled around him, howling in pain. Justan sucked that pain away with Peace and silenced them with Rage.
The monsters edged away in confusion at being attacked from behind and Justan finally broke through. The situation was more dire than he had expected. The academy’s troops had been pushed back. Monsters had surged forward and a pitched battle was being fought in front of the barricades.
How had it happened? The situation had seemed well in hand. He looked up and saw lightning strikes and fireballs exploding in the air high above them. The wizard’s spells were being deflected somehow. Justan shifted to mage sight and saw the problem. Somehow the enemy had erected a bubble-like shield to repulse the spells. He looked down the line of battle and saw nothing that could be causing it.
Fist, there is a shield deflecting the spells! he sent.
Justan swung Rage and blasted a slimy beast that seemed to be leaking some sort of acid from holes all over its body. Parts of it spattered the other creatures beyond it, causing them to howl in pain and stagger backwards. The men surged forward.
I see it, the ogre replied and Justan could tell that the berserkers were locked in a losing battle of their own. The wizards know it’s there. It blocks arrows too.
Justan cursed under his breath and ran back to join his unit. The men had been routed. They must have lost half their force. Bodies lay everywhere and only a small number were holding the beasts back.
“Rally to me!” Justan said as he cut a tall stork-like beast’s legs out from under it and it crashed to the ground, tripping up a scaled monstrosity with a single eye instead of a head. Justan splattered the eye with Rage.
“Rally to me!” he said again, and the men responded, stumbling in his direction, many of them dragging wounded comrades. He could see right away that they were in no shape to continue. “Fall back! Take the wounded to the wizards!”
“But the order hasn’t been given?” one man complained.
“I’m giving it now. Once the wounded are out of the way, you can come back and fight!”
“Yes, sir,” the man said.
Gwyrtha, where’s the cavalry? he asked.
Fighting, she replied. He sensed that she was covered in small wounds and her mouth was full of the blood of Ewzad’s mutated men. Lots dead.
Justan turned to see that three warriors from his unit had refused his orders and were standing near him, swords in hand. They were all recent academy graduates, young and unafraid. He recognized one of them as Kathy the Plate, the assistant to Stout Harley. Her plate armor was distinctive, glowing blue to his Mage Sight.
“They have enough men to carry the wounded back with
out us. We can still fight,” she said. Justan didn’t bother to argue. They were defense guild. They were tough.
“Where is Sir Lance?” he asked her.
“He went in after you,” Kathy said.
Justan shook his head. “The old man better not die on my account. I’m going after him,” He ran back towards the gap in the barricade where he had last seen Sir Lance. “You should remain behind.”
“We’re with you!” Kathy replied and charged after him.
Mutated monsters stood in the gap, keeping the army from busting through. There seemed to be a momentary lapse in the fighting at this area. Infantrymen stood several paces back from the barricade breathing heavily, while the monsters stayed behind the protective bubble barrier, safe from spells and arrows.
Justan shoved past the men and rushed the beasts. He slashed about him with his swords, catching them off guard. He slew four of them before they fought back.
Kathy was right behind him. Her axe seemed unnaturally sharp, its blade gleaming a dull black, and she wielded it like a hammer, smashing and slashing her enemy at the same time.
Justan soon saw Sir Lance’s trail, a line of smoking monsters, each one smote cleanly in pieces, leading off in a different direction than his own. He followed the trail with his three companions in tow, felling any hideous creatures in their way.
Finally, the grizzled old warrior came into view. “Sir Lance!” Justan cried.
Lance fought proudly, surrounded by wary monsters, his white hair matted with blood as he swung his huge sword with one hand. Smoking hulks littered the ground around him, the other beasts slipping in the remains of their brethren as they attempted to reach him.
Lance turned to face him and Justan saw that his face was very pale. The named warrior’s left arm was gone, ripped off at the shoulder.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Lance shouted, his lip curling in anger. “Retreat, you idiots!”
They’re calling retreat, Fist said. Come!
Come back! Gwyrtha said, and Justan knew she was coming after him.
“Come with us!” Justan said.
“Missing an arm?” Lance cocked his head at Justan. “Why, boy? I’m dead.” As if in confirmation, a huge hairy giant swung a heavy fist, crumpling the named warrior to the ground.
“What do we do?” Kathy asked.
“Do as he said,” Justan replied. “Retreat! Re-!”
Justan felt a strange pain in his chest. He looked down and saw the fletching of an arrow sticking out from the center of his chest. Standing between the monsters was a single archer fumbling for another arrow.
In disbelief Justan said, both aloud and through the bond, “I’ve been hit.”
Justan! Gwyrtha and Fist cried out at once.
Justan shivered. He felt the hands of two of his companions grasp his shoulders and pull him away. The monsters crowded in and Kathy the Plate ran forward, fighting them off with wide swipes of her axe.
One grabbed for her with arms made of stone, but it was no match for her axe and she left it with stubs. Another one, a squat beast, thick but no taller than a man, shot spikes at her from a cannon of a mouth. The spikes struck hard, staggering her, but bounced away unable to penetrate her armor.
“Wait,” Justan said numbly. He felt cold and his vision was going blue, no, blue and gold. His breath frosted in the air. “Wait!” he shouted.
He looked down at his chest and saw that the shaft of the arrow had been encased by a shard of ice. It was then he knew that the arrow had pierced the center of the frost rune. He reached through the bond. The blockage between him and the Scralag was gone. Icy cold poured through the bond. He could feel the Scralag’s pain and anguish. Icy power built within his body.
“Let go of me!” He shouted at the men dragging him. Peace had stopped draining his emotions and his panic spun out of control. The icy power within him built until a torrent of frost, like frozen fog, spewed from his wounded chest. The men let go and backed away. “Kathy, run! Get out of here!
He pointed Peace at one of the beasts assaulting her. A great lance of ice shot from the tip of the sword and skewered the beast. Kathy turned and looked at him in surprise. Instinctively, he fired another lance of ice over her head, piercing another beast that had drawn too close.
“Go!” he shouted. “Don’t let the magic touch you!”
The frost spewing from his chest became a white torrent of ice, like a living river. The magic flowed across the ground and every beast that touched it froze in place. Justan stumbled backwards and swiped with Rage, shooting a similar torrent of white ice from the blade. A wall of ice sprang up from the ground where the magic landed, freezing beasts mid-stride.
We’re here, Justan! came Fist’s voice.
“No! No, stay back. It’s too dangerous! The Scralag is coming!”
More of Ewzad’s mutated men charged around the barrier of ice towards him. Justan slashed with his swords, sending waves of ice crashing into them. The creatures froze and burst to pieces.
Justan felt one of Fist’s strong hands grab him by the sword sheathes on his back. He was lifted off the ground and they began to move away from the beasts, but Justan sent blasts of frost towards them anyway, sending towers of ice springing from the ground behind him.
Absently he wondered why Fist was holding him so high off the ground. Why was he moving so fast? White ice poured from his chest as they moved, freezing a swath of the road, causing men to dodge or be frozen themselves. Justan knew he was losing control.
Where was the Scralag? Was it still coming, or was it dead? Was this his magic unleashed like Professor Been had been hoping?
He was placing men in danger, but there was nothing he could do. Random blasts of ice shot from his blades, springing up into high crystalline walls wherever they struck the ground. Men screamed. He tried to drop his swords, but he couldn’t move his hands.
Fist, he sent. His vision was beginning to fade, the blue and gold giving way to blackness. Fist, put me down. I’m hurting people. I might . . . hurt you.
No, Fist said.
I’m sorry . . . blackness consumed his vision. I’m sorry . . . then he felt nothing; no cold, no sensation of movement. Maybe Peace was working now. Maybe he had simply frozen over. Maybe . . . maybe the arrow had killed him.
Faintly he thought he heard voices. They could have been Fist and Gwyrtha or maybe even Deathclaw, but they were too quiet. Then the voices faded altogether.
I’m sorry . . .
Chapter Eighteen
Talon prowled through an endless field of soft purple flowers that gave off a pleasant scent. Boring flowers. The sky was blue and clear spotted with small puffy white clouds. It was a boring sky.
She hungered, but there was no prey. Just insects; fat worms which popped satisfyingly in her mouth but had no flavor; plump bees that tried to sting her but could not pierce her scales with their little stingers; and butterflies. The air was full of pretty pink and yellow butterflies that had a dusty texture and taste. Boring butterflies.
It was a boring place altogether. A hateful place.
Talon tore apart the flowers. She ate the grubs, squished the bees. But it was idle fun and unsatisfying. The sun still sparkled cheerfully and the petals of the flowers were still pretty even if they were shredded and scattered about. The butterflies ignored her, flitting from place to place even though the flowers were destroyed.
Talon took out her irritation on the butterflies next. They were a bit more erratic in their flight than the bees, zig-zagging and bobbing in seemingly random patterns. It was challenging in the beginning until she got the hang of it. But then she engaged in pure butterfly slaughter. Knocking them out of the sky, catching them and tearing off their wings.
Then the fun of butterfly killing began to fade. They had no voices to scream with. They died so easily. Looking around her, Talon realized that very few butterflies were left. Soon they would be gone. One of them floated towards her and landed on her finger. S
he reached with her other hand to crush it, but stopped.
The grubs were gone, the bees. There were no other animals, nothing but the sky and miles of broken plants. If the butterflies that were left died, she would be alone. She released the butterfly and followed it. The small number of butterflies flew together lazily in the fading sun and Talon walked behind them, not wanting them to fade out of sight.
Then one of the butterflies fell, clumsily fluttering out of the sky. Talon found it and picked it up. It was dead. Another one fell, silently dying, and another. Talon grew worried. Their numbers were decreasing. She hadn’t done anything. Why were they dying?
More butterflies fell dead from the sky until there were only a handful left. Talon finally realized why. The butterflies drank from the flowers and the flowers were all gone. She had destroyed them. Talon scooped up armfuls of flower petals and rushed after the remaining butterflies, urging them to eat. But the butterflies continued to bob about, ignoring her, dropping one by one.
The sky darkened as the cheery sun sank until there was only a red haze on the horizon and soon only one was left. Talon gently plucked the last butterfly from the air and held it close, trying to get it to eat the shredded remains of flowers. The tiny thing’s wings beat slower and slower and then as the light faded from the sky, it stopped moving.
Talon was alone. No stars shone in the sky. There were no sounds but the soft rustle of a breeze. Then the wind stopped. Talon shivered.
“Talon!” said a raspy voice. “Talon!”
Talon opened her eyes. She was laying on luxuriant softness. She was on the broken remains of the mayor’s bed. She’d been sleeping on the feather mattress. She had destroyed the rest of the room, peeling bright paper from the walls, breaking the furniture to pieces. But the mattress, it had felt too good to destroy.
“Talon? Mistress Talon?” Durza said.
The Bowl of Souls: Book 05 - Mother of the Moonrat Page 23
