by Cas Peace
When the demons had roughly herded all their prisoners together in the main room and left only two of their comrades on guard duty, Paulus took the opportunity to prime his fellow captives. They had all heard the sporadic noises during the night and guessed there were Albian swordsmen outside the village trying to dislodge the demons. The villagers might only be farmhands, bakers, and shopkeepers, rather than trained fighters, but surely they could overcome two lone demons if they worked together? Using whispered comments and concealed gestures, Paulus directed them to whatever might be used as a weapon. Broken ale jars—or even whole ones—could do a lot of damage, and ale tankards were nice and weighty, handy for women to throw. So stealthily did Paulus work that when the noise of attack broke out in the street, he and the villagers were fully prepared to help their rescuers win the day.
He leaped off his bar stool yelling, and the other men quickly snatched up their chosen weapons. They charged the two demons standing by the locked door and overwhelmed them, attacking whatever part of their bodies they could reach. The crunch of bone and the shattering of stoneware almost drowned out the screams. Then they turned their attention to the tavern door, and Paulus couldn’t help but wince as it gave way under their kicks. The women grabbed tankards, stools, brooms, whatever came to hand, and poured out of the tavern behind their men.
It was still dark and the noise outside was deafening. Paulus wanted to yell at the villagers, to form them into some kind of cohesive band, but their blood was up. Some of them raced toward a mass of fighters on one side of the street while others split away, heading for a second battle raging farther on. Whooping and roaring their anger, they added their weight to the fight.
*****
Sonten’s impatience was turning to panic. His men were only just holding Vanyr and the seamen. His feverish eyes raked the predawn gloom. Where in the Void was Heron? Sonten might have possession of the Staff, but he couldn’t use it. He needed Heron if he was to escape as planned. Protected by about fifteen of his men, he retreated slowly before Vanyr’s onslaught, making for the main street where the horses were. When Heron finally came running, bringing welcome reinforcements, Sonten thrust the Staff into his hands.
“Do it now,” he grated, his eyes wild. “I’ve told you what I want you to do, so get on with it. Let’s get out of here!”
Despite the chaos around him, Heron eyed the Staff. “I don’t like this, General. It goes against the grain to sacrifice so many of our men. And I’m not sure I’m capable of doing what you want. I’ve only opened a large trans-Veil tunnel once before, and I don’t have the strength or skill to fix its destination.”
Sonten couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t the man see how desperate their situation was?
“For the Void’s sake, man, get on with it! This thing amplifies metaforce, remember? You’ll be at least twice as powerful as you were before—I’ve already told you that.”
“But the people, General. The risk is—”
“Sod the bloody risk, Heron! They’re only Albians. This is our lives we’re talking about.”
Sonten was furious. Heron had raised this objection before when he had first heard about the plan. Despite the General’s assurance that the Staff would vastly amplify his power, Heron wasn’t confident. He had blathered on about the risks involved in opening any kind of rent in the Veils so close to occupied dwellings. Sonten had laughed in his face. He had no regard for the human population of Hyecombe and couldn’t understand why Heron would bring it up again.
Despite his General’s anger, Heron tried one last time. “But it’s not just—”
Sonten shifted slightly. Heron’s eyes widened in shock as he stared down the length of the General’s sword, its tip pressed just below his sternum.
“Do it, Heron! Just do it.”
The Commander swallowed and nodded. Sonten removed his blade and watched avidly as Heron concentrated his will on the Staff.
Sonten had deliberately not told his Commander how long it had taken Jaskin to learn to use the Staff. He assumed that Heron’s Adept-elite rank would overcome that problem, and anyway, he was only going to use it to open the Veils. Once they were back in Durkos, there would be time aplenty for Heron to fine tune his control.
After a few seconds of intense concentration from Heron, the Staff began to glow. Ripples of blue, green, and grey light raced up and down its length. Heron glanced up at Sonten, his face alive with power. Forgetting the fight raging around them, the yells and screams and roars of angry men, the General grinned. His plan was going to work.
Heron turned and raised the Staff. He gestured with both hands. The grey gloom of early dawn began to shimmer in front of him. Suddenly, Sonten could make out the outline of a portway. He clenched his fists in triumph. Let the rest of his men perish along with the thrice-damned human villagers! He could easily glean more from Rykan’s estates before the Hierarch annexed the lot. Despite the failure of Rykan’s challenge and the disastrous war with the Hierarch’s forces, there were plenty who would follow Sonten’s banner, plenty who would cleave to his cause. Especially once he had outlined his plans and made Heron demonstrate what the Staff was capable of. Rykan had never been liked, either by his peers or his men—he had been too cruel for that—but Sonten was known as a fair lord and a generous one, provided his orders were followed.
He shook his head. Rykan had been such a fool. If only he had listened to Sonten instead of allying himself with that scheming Albian Baron. If he hadn’t wasted time pleasuring himself with the human witch, he would have been Hierarch by now, without any of that messy dueling business. Yet that had been Rykan all over. The obvious and brutal approach when subtlety would have been more apt.
Yelling above the din for his bodyguard, Sonten told them to grab the horses.
*****
Captain Baily pounded past the backs of the houses, his men crowding his heels. They had had a hard time of it at the eastern end of the village. The light of the lowering moon had betrayed them, and they had been spotted by a sharp-eyed demon scout before they were fully in position. Baily had been forced to engage the enemy far earlier than Robin had planned.
They suffered significant losses before recovering from the resulting disarray. The demons fought hard, harder than Baily had expected, refusing to be distracted by the sounds of another attack coming from the western end of the village. Baily’s men were rapidly outnumbered and lost ground fast in the darkness. He knew he had to pull out or risk losing his entire command. Making his decision, he yelled, “Fall back, lads. Retreat.”
They obeyed and followed Baily, who decided to slip back through the fields and come through the houses from the north, to provide backup for Vanyr and Ky-shan. He knew his men would be massacred if they stayed where they were.
Glancing over his shoulder into the growing light, Baily felt relief when the demons decided not to pursue him but instead ran to help their fellows in the main street. Calling to his men to rally them, Baily plunged back between the houses to rejoin the fighting.
*****
Sonten’s defenders jostled around him and Heron, the horses whinnying and curveting as men yelled and swords clashed close by. One of Heron’s underlings bellowed in Sonten’s ear, “There’s another unit of Albians coming, General! They’re forcing our lads back up the street toward us. I don’t think we can hold them off.”
Sonten cursed. The man was right. They were on the verge of being overwhelmed. His orderly escape was in danger of falling apart, and he abruptly decided on a radical change of plan. Heron was still concentrating on expanding his tunnel and could spare no attention for the General. Screaming at his men to abandon the horses, Sonten barked a command to retreat.
“Heron,” he yelled, “finish that damned tunnel!”
The Commander was concentrating so hard he barely acknowledged Sonten. He made an ambiguous gesture that Sonten chose to interpret as readiness. Giving Heron no further thought, the General shoved the nearest men into the shim
mering portway. No chance he was going first.
The trans-Veil structure shot sparks and Heron reacted wildly, grabbing the General’s arm. Sonten angrily shook him off.
“It’s not ready, General,” cried Heron. “I don’t have full control … it won’t come out where you—”
“Doesn’t bloody matter,” spat Sonten. “Just hold the damned thing open.”
Heron’s eyes were wild and his face deathly pale. The General ignored him. The Staff had plenty of power, and it didn’t really matter where the tunnel opened as long as it was somewhere in Andaryon. Once the first men to enter had proved it was safe, Sonten could make his escape.
*****
With a savage cut to the throat, Robin dispatched his opponent and drew a breath, using the brief lull to glance around him. He was pleased with the progress they were making, but could not understand what had happened to Parren. He and Parren were supposed to be supporting each other, driving Sonten’s forces away from the village and out into the marshy ground around the pond, yet Robin’s command were doing all the work themselves. There was no sign of Parren.
A sudden commotion to his left caused Robin to spin round. With relief, he saw the remnants of Baily’s command come pouring down through the houses to engage Sonten’s flank. This gave him respite to try to locate either Parren or Vanyr. He could see neither man, but what he did see, to his dismay, was the unmistakable shimmer of a trans-Veil portway. Limned against it like a blue halo was a tall figure wielding what could only be the Staff.
Robin went cold. Summoning his strength, he yelled, “Torman!” There was an answering shout from somewhere in front of him. Abandoning caution, Robin linked with Vanyr.
Sonten’s man is opening a tunnel. He’s got the Staff and he’s getting away!
Vanyr’s response was tight with strain. Don’t worry, I’m on him. If he tries to use the tunnel, we’ll follow, but it’s not ready yet.
Reassured that Vanyr had the situation covered, Robin again scanned the mêlée for Parren. There was still no sign of him, but in the slowly growing light Robin could just make out some of his men outside the tavern. Before he could wonder what the sallow captain was doing back there, an Andaryan swordsman aimed a lunge at Robin’s chest. Whirling, he deflected the stroke, his blade ringing on his opponent’s as he sidestepped, avoiding the backslash. There were more Andaryans facing his command now as those from the eastern end were rallying the ones surrounding Sonten. The battle was turning desperate.
*****
Sonten screamed at Heron to hurry even as he continued to shovel men into the portway. He knew nothing about the mechanics of anchoring such structures and had no understanding of the risks or pressure Heron was under. All Sonten knew was that Vanyr and the seamen were bearing down on him, battling their way ever closer. Without warning, he grabbed at the Staff in Heron’s hand.
“Quickly, man, it must be now!”
He dived into the dangerously unstable tunnel, dragging Heron behind him. Struggling to maintain the structure, Heron tried to resist. He pulled back on Sonten’s grip, desperately holding on to his connection with the Staff.
“No, General! It’s too early! If I don’t anchor the portway, it could implode with all—”
Sonten wasn’t listening, furious that his carefully prepared escape was being jeopardized. First he had lost Imris, and now he had to leave the horses. Maddening though this was, it was incidental compared to his and Heron’s safety. And if it came down to priorities, even Heron could be sacrificed provided Sonten escaped with the Staff. He could always find another Artesan open to bribery—or coercion. Heron’s frantic resistance was earning him no favors. Sonten wasn’t about to relinquish his grip on the Staff.
Neither was he going to listen to Heron lecture on how an Artesan’s power worked. All he knew was that his escape route was in existence. Seeing Vanyr and the seamen closing rapidly, Sonten bolted as fast as his bulk and Heron’s resistance allowed.
With Vanyr’s furious roar echoing in his ears, Sonten fled.
*****
Cal opened bleary eyes. The bearded face of a huge man loomed over him. He would have flinched had he not been so exhausted. The man quickly introduced himself, and Almid’s low murmur reassured Cal. He felt the giant’s hands working loose the bonds around him, and prepared himself for pain as the circulation returned to his broken arm. What he wasn’t prepared for was the return of his Artesan powers when the spellsilver knife blocking them fell to the ground. It was as if a thick cocoon of wool had been abruptly ripped away.
Hot agony shot up Cal’s shattered arm. His scream of anguish was echoed and amplified by his suddenly accessible metaforce. Cal grabbed for power to dampen the pain. He was only half-conscious and so didn’t wonder at the vast amount of power that flooded through his broken body. Still screaming, he pulled at it, soaked it up, and reached for more. His use of power was uncontrolled, uncontained, and metaforce leaked wildly into the substrate, fueled by his anguished screams.
*****
Vanyr knew he was gaining on the General. He also realized that Heron was not fully in control of the portway. He could feel its instability through the element of Earth from which it was formed. Casting aside thoughts of his own safety, he had eyes only for the two fleeing men and the artifact they carried. As he ran, he tried reaching out with his own metaforce, wondering if he could disrupt Heron’s concentration. If he could wrest control of the Staff from Heron, he might be able to seal the end of the tunnel, trapping Sonten inside. He was aware that Heron was metaphysically stronger than him, but Sullyan’s words concerning his ranking five days ago had given him new confidence.
Exerting his will, Vanyr latched on to the strange signature of the Staff. He could now feel Heron’s pattern of psyche and sense how tenuous his grip on the Staff was. Ignoring the weird sensations the Staff sent crawling through his body, Vanyr succeeded in severing Heron’s connection to the weapon. Triumphant, he saw the enemy commander stumble and then glance fearfully over his shoulder.
Vanyr grinned, but his triumph faded as a strange and ominous rumbling came from behind him. Glancing over his own shoulder, he frowned at the eerie ripples advancing toward him, warping the air. The figures of men seemed to bleed, their shapes flowing like muddy water. Sound warped too, the cries and screams of men swelling and ebbing in his ears. He felt sick.
He grabbed for the substrate, trying to control the strangely fluctuating power. Before he could act, a shockwave barreled into him. The sound of a thousand souls screaming in agony whipped Vanyr around like fluff in a gale, making him gasp in pain. He stared, helpless, as the weirdly augmented scream rebounded wildly through the tunnel, blasting over Sonten and his fleeing men. Vanyr’s eyes widened in horror as the tunnel wavered on the verge of collapse.
He shielded instinctively, turning to yell furiously over his shoulder at Ky-shan and the seamen. “Cover your ears! The tunnel’s collapsing! Go back! GET OUT!”
Without waiting to see if they obeyed him, he plunged his metasenses into the Staff, grasping at the vat of power with no restraint. He took a deep breath, for the ripples of the shockwave had reached the far end and were racing back toward him with mindless fury. He saw Sonten and Heron fall, both men crumpling like slaughtered deer. Clapping his hands over his ears as the wave raced over him, Vanyr fell to his knees. His body was blasted and shaken like a rag, yet his mind clamped desperately over the tunnel’s structure as it shuddered around him, threatening to fall apart. It ripped at his senses and he screamed, fighting to hold it together. The sound wave bounced back once more, punching him flat to the ground, searing his nerves and burning them raw. In anguish, he called upon the power of the Staff, just enough to direct the tunnel’s opening. He forced himself to crawl forward, desperate to snatch the Staff from Heron’s hand. He had to make it out before the tunnel collapsed completely.
Holding his connection to the Staff was agony. Its power charred his barely shielded mind. Needles of hot pain
lanced into his eyes and boiling liquid spilled down his face, making him shriek. On hands and knees, he blindly forced himself forward, pace by tortured pace, crying with pain as he grimly held on to the tunnel.
One thought kept him going, distracted him from his agony. It was the image of Sullyan fighting for Bull’s life as the big man lay unresponsive after his heart seizure. She would never have given up on him, and Vanyr knew he could not give up now. Everything she had suffered—at Rykan’s palace, in the arena, and then to save her friends—could not be wasted. Without the Staff, she stood no chance of life.
Vanyr could not let her down. Setting his teeth in a rictus of urgency, he clamped his mind around the disintegrating tunnel.
He had no idea if anyone else was left in the structure. He had no thoughts, no time to speculate, no capacity for anything but this bitter battle for survival. He felt it like a sword in his back when the Albian end of the tunnel fractured, broke, and collapsed. He shrieked aloud as it raced up behind him, tumbling and buffeting his body as it imploded, shattering all around him.
Flinging himself forward with a last, muscle-wrenching effort, he clawed desperately for the tunnel’s end.
*****
The structure’s collapse sent a vast sound wave booming through the village. Every window was shattered and buildings were flattened. Once the aftershock had died, there wasn’t a single person left standing in the ruin that had once been Hyecombe.
Chapter Ten
Even while she slept, Sullyan’s metaforce surrounded her psyche with gentle healing. Moving through her blood and flesh, the amber essence encouraged bones to knit and new skin to grow. It was a soothing process, an unconscious process once set in motion, and Sullyan’s dreaming mind lay cocooned in power.
