by Darian Smith
He hit Morgin at a run, using the force of his momentum and body weight to push him off balance. It was enough to easily knock a man over. Brannon raised his hand, ready to ride him down and bash the man’s skull into the ground when they fell.
Morgin merely stumbled. He regained his balance immediately and slashed at Brannon’s face with his sharp nails.
Brannon sprang back out of reach.
Morgin leaped upward, clinging to the ceiling once more. He scuttled a few steps over, then dropped just as Brannon drew his sword.
Brannon lunged forward, raising the blade so that it slid into Morgin’s stomach like a knife into tender soft meat. It drove through his small intestines, probably nicked a kidney, and spiked out of his back like the beginning of an extra limb.
The physician part of his mind analyzed the impact. Not an immediate kill, but likely to bleed out if not attended quickly. Very likely to die of infection later.
“That’s not very polite,” Morgin said. He turned, pulling the handle of the sword from Brannon’s hand, then gripped the blade and drew it out of his body. Blood dripped from the end, adding to the slick of red that flowed from Shillia’s throat.
He tossed the sword aside and fingered the gash where it had been. The wound knitted back together, skin smooth and unblemished. “You put a hole in my shirt.”
“Really?” said Brannon. “Oh well.” He feinted with his left fist, then aimed a kick at where the wound had been. His physician’s brain refused to accept that it was completely gone. Perhaps there was some residual weakness.
Morgin stepped aside, moving like a flame in the breeze, fast and low. He dodged the kick and grasped Brannon’s foot instead, twisting his leg roughly.
Brannon yelped.
Morgin shoved him backward by the leg and he fell. The stone floor slammed into his back like a dozen sledgehammers striking at once, winding him. A moment later, Morgin’s boot struck his ribs.
Possible fractures, whispered the physician part of his mind.
Move! screamed the rest.
Brannon rolled, narrowly avoiding the next kick. He rolled again and again, but each time Morgin simply followed him.
Eventually something hard blocked his way. A sarcophagus. He pushed himself against it, using it to pull himself upright.
Another kick landed, this time cracking the stone of the sarcophagus where he had been a moment before.
“Whoops,” said Morgin. “That was supposed to be your head.” He pulled his foot back and chunks of stone fell to the floor.
“Draeson,” Brannon called out. “Now would be good!”
The air chilled, turning hazy and thick around them both.
Morgin frowned, looking around for the source of the fog. “What’s this?”
Brannon backed away. His chest felt like fiery pokers had been thrust between each rib and into his lung.
Morgin moved as if to follow him, but his feet had been trapped in a block of ice.
Brannon watched as more blocks formed out of the fog and merged with the first. They encased Morgin’s legs, then his torso and his arms, growing like a snowdrift until the former undertaker was engulfed all the way to the neck in clear blue ice, literally frozen in place.
“That more or less what you had in mind?” Draeson said, stepping into the room with Ula and Taran.
Brannon gave a small chuckle, then flinched when it hurt his ribs. “Yeah. But quicker.”
The mage rolled his eyes. “Some people are never satisfied.”
Taran hurried over to Brannon, taking his elbow. “Are you okay?”
Brannon waved him off. “Yeah, I’m fine. Get Jessamine and Tommy.”
Morgin eyed the priest. “Stay away from them,” he said. “They’re mine.”
“No, they’re not,” Brannon said. “And neither is that body you’re wearing, so why don’t you leave it voluntarily?”
Morgin raised his chin. “Make me.”
Brannon sighed. “Ula, you’re up.”
The Djin woman stepped forward. She held out her hands, palms toward Morgin. They were gray to the wrists, as though she wore gloves of ash and mud. Her dreadlocks and face were smeared with dirt, her teeth sharp white against her blackened lips. She spoke in her own tongue first, and the air began to stir around them.
Brannon felt a burning tingle across his skin.
She was powerful, feral, a spirit-creature of the earth herself.
“Kaluki, I bind you,” she said, switching to Kalan. The power stirring in the air became a swirling wind. “I bind you with the earth of this place and the earth of mine. I bind you with the fire that warms creatures of this realm. I bind you with the air we breathe. I bind you with the water of my body. You not belong here. Now go!”
The wind ceased swirling and whooshed toward Ula. Brannon felt it not on his skin but inside him, as if the current of power had set a hook into his core and tugged at it.
The kaluki in Morgin threw back his head and groaned between clenched teeth. The sound stretched into a shrill whistling wail.
Abruptly, it stopped. Morgin’s head fell forward.
Brannon looked around the room. Taran had a knife in his hand, his face pale. He had obviously experienced the same tug that Brannon had felt—the edge of the force Ula had used to pull the kaluki out of Morgin.
Ula sagged, her breathing ragged.
Draeson caught her and eased her into a sitting position. “Did it work?”
For a moment, everything was silent. Brannon let himself breathe.
Then a low chuckle echoed around the room. Morgin lifted his head and the laughter transformed his face, vicious eyes and twisted mouth out of place among the freckles. “No,” he said. “It didn’t work. You’re not nearly strong enough, Ula. You must have known it would take the full Priory of Gradinath to stop me now.”
Brannon sighed and shuffled into the creature’s line of sight. “She knew. But I asked her to try anyway.”
Morgin’s face twitched.
Taran reached Jessamine and began fumbling with the ropes holding her in place. She had a bruise over her eye.
“The Priory of Gradinath might be the only thing that can stop you, but we can trap you until they get here.” Brannon stepped back. “Ice him, Draeson. Ice the whole Hooded room.”
“With pleasure.” Draeson raised his hand and the air thickened and chilled.
Frost formed on the stone walls. The column of ice already holding Morgin in place began to grow. Brannon watched as it closed over Morgin’s head, sealing the young man and the kaluki possessing him inside.
He turned away.
Shillia’s blood oozed toward the chalk runes on the floor. Directly toward them.
Brannon stared, watching as the blood moved closer, then flooded over the first of the markings. Rather than being hidden or washed away, the rune showed clearly, now marked in the blood, oily and black against the red. As he watched, the blood moved across the next rune and it too turned black. He swore.
“Something’s going on here. Taran, hurry up.”
“There’s a lot of rope here,” the priest called back. “And my fingers are cold.”
Two more runes were swallowed and converted by the blood. The black ooze writhed like maggots, then put forth tiny tendrils of oily darkness, shiny and sleek. They reached toward the matching runes on the ceiling.
“Cut the rope,” Brannon said. The chill he felt had little to do with Draeson’s spell.
“I am cutting it.”
“Ula, what is this?” He pointed to the rune circle as the blood closed over the last symbol. The tentacles rose higher.
The Djin woman’s face was pale. She murmured in her own language before taking a deep breath. Her eyes were very wide. “Portal to kaluki realm.”
A loud crack pulled their attention.
The ice column had shattered. Morgin stepped free and smiled, sharp teeth bared. He picked up a chunk of ice and threw it across the room. It struck Taran in the side of
the head and the priest fell to the floor. “I told you to leave my guests alone.”
Brannon ran to check on Taran but Morgin threw another chunk of ice, striking him in the shoulder with enough force to knock him off his feet. He hit the cold ground and slipped in the blood. The black tentacles twitched for a moment as his ankle came close, then stretched toward the ceiling once more.
“That’s enough of that,” Draeson muttered. The dragon tattoo crawled out of his sleeve, down to his elbow, and hissed. He raised his hand and sparks sprayed from the fingers, as a bolt of lightning shot out, striking Morgin square in the chest.
A wide patch of the young man’s shirt burned away and his skin was charred, raw and blistered.
He laughed and tore off the rest of the shirt, dropping it to the ground. “You still think you can hurt me?” He peeled back the burnt pieces of flesh, showing the ribs beneath. “Watch.”
He let go and the skin pulled itself back into place. Charred pieces fell like black snowflakes and fresh, new skin grew, binding the old together. The redness faded and blisters disappeared. He was healthy and unharmed.
Brannon looked from Morgin to the writhing black tentacles of the runes. His body ached and every breath brought a sharp pain in his chest. A churning sick feeling rose in the pit of his stomach. The portal was opening already and Morgin was proving immune to Draeson’s magic—their most powerful weapon. Years of battle strategy was deserting him. Worse, it was telling him all was lost.
He scraped his fingers over the useless mud runes on his arm. “Do something, dammit!”
“You see the portal, prioress?” Morgin gloated as he watched Ula. The Djin woman trembled and he smiled. “The prophecy is coming true and you’re the only one of your kind in the right place. My kaluki brethren will feast, then we will bring forth our makers. We will shred your flesh, but before you die you will see the final failure of your kind.”
Tears ran down Ula’s cheeks, but she remained silent. She held her hands loosely by her sides then brought them up in a rush, clenched into fists.
The supernatural wind rushed through the room once more, tugging at the core of each of them.
This time, Morgin only laughed.
The first of the black tentacles reached the ceiling and the rune it touched burned white. The white spilled down, caressing the black, filling the gaps between it and the tendrils surrounding it. The next one struck the ceiling and did the same. The remaining black tentacles seemed to gain speed from their fellows and shot upward. The rush of white flowed down like a fountain, mixing with the oily blackness and merging the entire mass together into a writhing, undulating column of shining silver, like some twisted mirror in a carnival.
“Here they come,” said Morgin, his eyes alight as he watched the silvery surface bulge.
Behind him, Ylani slipped into the room.
Brannon’s eyes bulged. “No,” he mouthed to her.
She lifted a finger to her lips and crept along the wall toward Jessamine and Tomidan.
Brannon struggled to push himself upright. She would be killed along with the rest of them. He had to do something.
A jab of pain shot through his chest. The tiny part of his mind that was still functioning as an impartial physician diagnosed it. A broken rib puncturing his lung. Another blow to the chest could be fatal.
He could hear Master Jordell’s voice in his head. “Bind it up tight. No lifting of any kind. No running. Rest for a good month.”
He ignored it. A kind of peace came over him. He met Ylani’s eyes again. This time, he mouthed a different message. “Get them out of here.” He could buy her time for that.
Morgin didn’t see his charge until it was almost too late. Brannon pulled a dagger from his belt as he ran, thinking he could at least try to do enough damage to slow him down. It’d taken a moment to heal from Draeson’s lightning attack. Perhaps that moment’s delay would be enough for Ylani to get Jessamine and Tomidan to safety.
Whatever safety meant in a world about to be overrun by free kaluki.
Brannon raised the knife to strike, just as Morgin turned his head.
“Pathetic,” the kaluki said, and backhanded him.
Brannon flew backward. His body slammed into the wall and he slid to the ground. Something hard and cold was underneath him. He’d landed on his sword. His chest quivered as he fought to breathe, every shallow intake bringing pain.
Morgin took a slow step toward him.
Brannon closed his eyes.
The sounds of the room filled him: Footsteps as Morgin drew closer. Draeson’s voice calling out his name. Animalistic grunts and squeals of the kaluki beyond the portal coming closer. The faint hissing scrape of a knife cutting rope.
He smiled. Ylani would get them free.
A tingling sensation began on the back of his hand. Brannon ignored it. He’d done what he could. His body could do no more. It was broken.
The feeling intensified, rivulets of heat spreading up his arm.
Morgin’s footsteps stopped. “What is that? What are you doing?”
Brannon opened his eyes. The mud runes Ula had painted on his skin while she had been an avatar for the earth spirits had changed. The mud was gone and they now burned with fire. As he watched, the flame spread along each rune, burning hot and brief, leaving a trail of pink scar tissue behind it.
Warmth filled him and suddenly he could breathe easily. The pain in his chest was gone, the aches and bruises vanished. He could feel his body filling with strength.
“Really?” he muttered to the invisible earth spirits. “Now is when you decide to help?”
“Who are you talking to?” Morgin’s brows drew close and he took a step back. “What just happened?”
Brannon felt the hilt of his sword beneath his palm and closed his fingers around it. He surged to his feet and closed the gap between him and Morgin in one swift movement. “This,” he said, and slammed the pommel of the sword up into Morgin’s face.
The kaluki stumbled back, blood flowing from his nose for just a moment before it stopped like a tap turned off.
Brannon had a moment to bask in his new strength before the young man recovered.
“You’ve had help,” Morgin said. He gestured toward the portal. “It won’t matter now. The others are coming and you can’t fight us all.”
The silver column hummed with energy. The surface of it bulged and a black scaled hand pierced through. Its fingers clutched at the empty air.
“Draeson.” Brannon searched for his friend. The mage was locked in urgent conversation with Ula. “You need to close that portal!”
“We don’t know how!”
Morgin smirked. Another clawed hand broke the surface of the portal. Then a tentacle.
Brannon stepped over and lopped off the tip of the tentacle with his sword. “Then stop whatever tries to come through it!”
Morgin’s hand on his shoulder pulled him back. “We’re not done yet, Bloodhawk.”
Brannon reversed his grip on his sword and thrust it behind him. “No, we’re not.”
A grunt from behind him let him know the blade had found its mark, but he knew there would be no sustained damage. He pulled the sword free again and spun, aiming at Morgin’s neck.
The kaluki leaped back, hissing in fury. “Kaluk fuulah!” It spat.
“Kaluk fuulah yrl,” Ula responded. The wind roared through the room once more, tugging and whipping in a frenzy, but still Morgin was untouched.
There was a flash of light and a crackle as Draeson threw lightning at whatever was coming through the portal. The stench of sizzling offal filled the air.
Brannon swung his sword again, feeling the power of the earth spirits fueling his muscles. He felt invincible. Was this how Morgin felt all the time? It was amazing.
His enemy stepped back once more, driven back by Brannon’s blade. Another step, and another. Then he surged forward, catapulting over Brannon’s head to land behind him.
Long, sharp claw
s scraped across Brannon’s back, slashing his shirt and his flesh. He screamed and spun, bringing up his blade to meet the next attack.
The sword slashed a river of red across Morgin’s forearm, but the limb stayed strong. The gash healed almost instantly.
Brannon shifted, testing the muscles in his back. His own wounds had also healed.
“Your earth spirits may have made you stronger, but that won’t save you now.”
Brannon risked a glance back at the portal. The entire column buckled. Something huge was pushing its way through.
Draeson was surrounded by a swarm of smaller creatures, mostly black and scaly. Some the size of dogs or cats, with many legs, some with three legs each ending in a humanoid hand rather than a foot. Others were winged and lunged at him from above.
Fire poured from the mage’s hands, searing the kaluki creatures that came too close. The dragon tattoo rode his cheek, puffed up large and roaring.
Ula stood rooted to the spot where he’d seen her last. Her eyes were closed and her fists at her sides. She again summoned the wind that tried to pull the kaluki from Morgin’s body.
“By the Wolf, woman,” Draeson yelled at her. “Try something else!”
She stayed where she was. Her lips barely moved. “Nothing else will work.”
Ylani yelled a warning. “Look out!”
Brannon turned just in time to see the lid of a sarcophagus flying toward his head. He raised an arm to protect himself and the stone shattered against it. He felt the bones in his arm break, then mend themselves.
“Bitch,” said Morgin. He pulled the lid from a second sarcophagus, this time hurling it at Ylani.
She threw herself to the ground, next to Taran’s unconscious body.
Jessamine, free but for one arm, screamed, pulling at the remaining bonds.
Brannon saw the motion of the throw and leaped forward, faster than he’d thought possible, to fling himself in the stone panel’s path. He dropped his sword, thrust his arms out, palms forward, and braced.
The carved lid hit him with the force of an avalanche and shattered into rubble. Dust and pebbles showered them all like a hailstorm.
Brannon glared. “Really, Morgin? Hurting women and a child to get to me? You’ve killed your family. You’ve killed people I care about. You’ve unleashed monsters on our world. And all because you wanted more attention. You’re a sick piece of shit and I’m just the physician you need.”
