An image of a beautiful unicorn flashed through his mind, barely long enough for him to notice, and then Braxton remembered. He needed the spirit sword. It was his only hope for maintaining his concentration and breaking free from the witches’ magic that bound him to the plains.
He twisted about, searching for the Unicorn Blade. An enormous white oak stood in Bendarren’s place, dwarfing those that had engulfed the Witch Sisters. Two long, thick roots extended from the ground, giant tentacles that broke apart the parched dirt as easily as pushing through soft clay. The roots had wrapped themselves around the witches, slowly constricting them. Malicine and Belladora fought back, throwing eerie green fire against the cords. But their magic was having little effect as the roots tightened their grip. Their attacks became more frantic, sending endless bursts of green magic against the white tree itself.
Then Belladora called out, a short, strangled sound that seemed a combination of both surprise and pain—something unexpected. Her magical barrage against the tree stopped, and she stood there looking shocked as her sister’s unrelenting attack continued.
Malicine turned quickly toward her. “Don’t you dare!” she hissed.
Belladora stared at her sister. Then she raised both her hands high above her head and touched her palms together. A swirling green mist appeared around her and hung in the morning air, obscuring her image. When it vanished an instant later, Belladora was gone, and the white cord of the tree dropped limply to the ground.
“No!” Malicine cried in a combination of hatred and rage, before turning and assaulting the oak again with such ferocity that a continuous stream of magical green energy extended from her hands. The tree’s leaves began to wither under the onslaught, and small eruptions of green fire appeared, spreading across its upper branches. But when the second white root that had once held her sister began wrapping itself around Malicine, the witch knew she was beaten. For a few, frantic moments, she threw all her remaining power at the oak until its majestic form was completely engulfed in flame, and its limbs showed significant signs of damage. But it was too late. She bent down in pain against the roots surrounding her body, and when she stared up at the tree, her hatred was ferocious and undeniable. She raised her hands above her head and wrapped herself in that same swirling green mist. When it finally cleared, the Witch Sisters of Dahgmor were gone.
Chapter 41
Phinlera’s breathing was completely inaudible, and only the occasional movements of her chest, faint and erratic, showed she still clung to life. The grip of the witches’ magic had disappeared with that green mist, and Brax was finally free, but Phinlera’s body was waging a losing battle against the wyvern’s sting. He lifted her damp shirt and saw the extent of the venom’s reach. Long, dark, purple strands, like fingers of death, extended outward from her bloodied and weeping wound, creeping across her chest, inching ever closer to her fading heart. Braxton couldn’t move, he couldn’t think; he just stared openmouthed at the damage to her beautiful body. No one could survive this, he knew. No one could recover from a wound that deep, that poisonous.
“You should have gone for the sword first,” said a calm voice behind him, as though in a dream, a nightmare, from which some familiar sound was calling for him to return. “Understand, Braxton, that your strength, your magical power, your entire life’s force is bound to its purpose; your path intertwined with the fates of many. Do not let yourself separate from it so easily again.”
He turned slowly, still in a fog, unable or unwilling to escape from the place where his shocked response to Phinlera’s wound had sent him. Bendarren held the Unicorn Blade across his palms. The bright morning sun danced off its unyielding form. The sight of the sword seemed to call to Brax somehow, providing clarity of something he once knew.
“What . . . what did you say?”
“Take up your master’s weapon, Braxton. Go to the fight.” Bendarren’s voice was a ray of hope in Brax’s dark and tumultuous emotions that still threatened to consume him.
He reached out, held down by unseen chains, and grasped the shaft of the Unicorn Blade. Its sharp edge cut into his palm. The moment he touched its warm metal surface, his mind awoke, releasing him from the frozen vice in which he’d been trapped. The spirit magic rushed through him, uplifting him, healing and energizing his body.
Awaken, my child, Serene said in a reassuring voice. We have much to do.
His mind cleared, like a veil pulled back, revealing the possibilities his connection with his master’s sword afforded him. He remembered how to call upon the spirit magic, to hold onto that one thought, to focus on a single vision, and infuse in it the power and will to control its actions. Closing his eyes, he summoned the energy and let it course through him, drinking in the feeling of its return.
He focused his mind on healing Phinlera, on releasing the spirit magic deep into her wound, asking that its power cleanse her infection and renew her body—to return to him this girl he loved so much. But when he looked down, she was gone. The parched ground of the Dunes lay empty and bare. Panicked, Brax searched about. Bendarren moved toward the giant oak, Phinlera’s limp body in his arms. The white tree still stood apart from Arbor Loren, its roots returned to normal, and the surrounding dirt undisturbed. The evil green fire no longer covered its branches, and the magnificent oak shone brilliantly, sunlight reflecting off its leaves.
Scrambling to his feet, he ran after their mentor. “Wait!” Brax cried. “I need to heal her!”
“You cannot help her now,” Bendarren said, moving quicker as he neared the tree. “There is only one who can, and even then, Phinlera’s chances are slim. Go to the front, Braxton. There at least you can be of help.”
Brax looked east, to the sounds of the battle beyond the encampments. The intense fighting rang loudly across the Gap of Dunes. When he turned back, Bendarren was gone. Braxton circled the oak, expecting to find him. But there was no sign of the elf or Phinlera. Stunned, he scanned the plains, then moved his hands up and down the warm bark, searching for the entrance he assumed was there but found nothing. He summoned the spirit magic, intending to find the doorway, to locate the path the elf must have taken, but still nothing revealed itself—no sense of opening, no feeling of a direction to follow. He looked toward Arbor Loren. He could run, he thought. It wasn’t that far. He could find her. He could still help.
Let her go, child. Go to the east.
Braxton wanted to scream. To tell Serene how much he needed Phinlera, how much she meant to him, that he had to do something to help save her. But he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He knew what she’d say—to let Phin go. He stood thinking, trying to calm his emotions, considering the two paths. He glanced toward the fighting. It would take him longer to reach the front. Arbor Loren was closer. Which way?
Go and fight. His master’s words sounded stronger in his mind.
He looked at the forest. The giant green oaks seemed so close. Brax stared at those trees, as though seeing home for the first time after a long journey, only to be told he couldn’t return. Reluctantly, he turned, picked up Shelindûhin, and sprinted toward the front.
* * *
Several hundred yards past the encampments of the allied nations, Braxton crested a small hillock in the plains of central Andorah, a gradual rise in the otherwise unchanging landscape of the expansive Breaker Dunes. But it was enough. Catching his breath, he surveyed the battle between the eastern and western armies. Above the plains, scores of Talonguard fought a vast plague of vipers for control of the skies—a chaotic aerial struggle in which golden streaks moved majestically among a morbid cloud. Below, in the heart of the fighting, the elves continued their masterful swordplay, moving among their slower adversaries in an ever-changing fluid motion, like a river adjusting its course to assault the weaker banks of the hardened Mins, driving ever deeper into their midst.
To the north, the dwarves held fast against the onslaught of a larger host, constantly manifesting their indistinguishable rock barricade in f
ront of the Min warriors, only to collapse it moments later and countercharge with their resolute mountain fighters. But the difference in the two armies’ fighting styles was creating a separation between the dwarves and their woodland kin. While the clans held their line, the elves pushed farther and farther into the heart of their foe. Without the protection of their dwarven allies, they’d soon be cut off and vulnerable on their left flank. Looking south, Brax hoped the mounted horsemen of his homeland could provide some support. But there the fighting was most intense. The Empire cavalry charged into a greater enemy, withdrew east or west, re-formed their battle line of purple-and-white banners, and attacked again. He knew they couldn’t maintain that pace much longer. Galloping horses grew tired and would eventually cease to run, and lance-armed soldiers were only effective while charging.
Something else, however, awakened his fear. Moving within the Min lines and nearing the front closest to the Empire soldiers, a creature towered above all others. Unlike the Mins, its giant, muscular body seemed covered in black skin, giving it an almost feral appearance. Its face lacked the bull shape of the Min soldiers, and instead an almost human-looking head controlled its actions. Sharp horns extended from its temples above small oval ears, and long, curved teeth protruded from an unnaturally large jaw. While the Mins’ human form and bull face were indicative of their mixed-race, this beast seemed made of something else entirely. Almost the reverse of the Mins, a cruel mind controlled its animal’s body. In one hand, it wielded an enormous double-edged sword with a hooked tip, that it swung left and right, cutting a wide swath through the men and elves unfortunate enough to cross its path. The creature seemed to revel in its unstoppable power, stirring the Mins around it into a frenzy.
That is Morgaroth, Serene said, one of the few remaining of its kind. Neither male nor female, it is an evil creature from the shadowy reaches of the spirit realms. It was summoned here through a terrible pact with the Dark Child and an unholy ritual performed by the Witch Sisters, diminishing the Dark Child’s power and contributing to his defeat in the mountains. The more primitive Mins worship it as a god, believing themselves created in its image. Those closest to it are the most vicious and brutal of their kind, trusting they fight for its will, its dominion of the earth. They see its presence here as the beginning of a new era for their race. Others are driven on by fear, for they cannot oppose it nor combat the vast hordes it now so easily controls.
There are none among you who can defeat it. We had hoped your Blademaster would have taken its breath, for he alone had the skill to challenge it. But he made his choice at the Dragon’s Head, and for that, we honor his passing. Now Morgaroth stands unchallenged. It is there, my child, that you must go.
Braxton pained at the mention of Kael. He still felt guilty for the Blademaster’s death and for not having controlled his emotions better during his fight with the Dark Child. If he had, Kael might be with them now, and able to help. He stared at the giant creature as it continued to cut down those who opposed it.
“Wait. You want me to fight that . . . thing?” he asked in disbelief as Serene’s words sank in. He swallowed hard.
You need only stop its advance. Delay it for a brief time, until help arrives.
“I cannot possibly survive against that monster or even get near it!”
You must, child, or the war is lost.
* * *
When Braxton neared the fighting in the Breaker Dunes, he wanted to retch. The smell of death was everywhere, and the hewn bodies of human and elven soldiers littered the plains by the thousands. Equal numbers of Mins lay among the dead, and the stench of decay sickened him. Here and there, a few broken forms of eagles were amid the carnage, some with their riders still faithfully strapped to their backs. Vipers covered the ground, pierced by Arbor Loren’s aerial archers, while others still fought for domination of the skies.
A massive form smashed into Braxton’s side, knocking him painfully to the ground. He lay stunned for a moment, trying to catch his breath, spitting out dirt, and wondering what had hit him.
Move! Serene’s warning echoed in his mind. He rolled left. A huge ax whizzed past him, barely missing his head, and stuck in the earth. A brown-haired Min towered over him, braying loudly. Its right arm had a nasty gash and hung at its side, its chest leaking blood from several arrows. The creature pulled at the ax with its remaining good arm, trying to free the weapon after the crushing blow it had intended for Braxton’s skull. The sight of the Min wrenched Brax from his dazed state, and he scrambled to his feet. Ignoring the pain in his side, he swung the Unicorn Blade underneath the creature’s outstretched arm, smashing into the Min’s exposed ribs. There was a cracking sound as the spirit sword pierced the animal’s thick hide, breaking its bones. When Brax pulled his sword free, he realized he’d almost cut the beast in two. Warm blood gushed from the fatal wound and pooled in the hardened dirt. Brax turned his head and retched.
He wiped the bile from his mouth. The Min must’ve been lying among the dead, he realized, injured in some previous fight, waiting for some unsuspecting foe. He avoided looking at the creature’s severed form and summoned the spirit magic, filling himself with its warm, uplifting presence. Extending the energy outward, he created a warning tendril against anyone else who might try to take him unaware. Brax took a drink from his waterskin, trying to settle his stomach. He could see the maelstrom of fighting ahead and the towering form of Morgaroth a few hundred yards to the south. Breathing deeply, he tried to calm his nerves against the confrontation he knew was coming. He drew Shelindûhin from his belt and looked at it for a moment, wondering if Phinlera had survived the wyvern’s attack, then pushed the thought from his mind. Gritting his teeth and gripping both magical weapons, he charged headlong into the battle.
When Braxton flung himself into the fighting between the Mins and the western allies, he was surprised at how attuned his senses were. Everyone around him seemed to move about in a slow, dreamlike state, their actions emphasized by his holding of the Leaf. He realized then the magical ability of Shelindûhin—how it slowed the movements of others, giving its wielder time to adjust to their attack. Combined with the tendril of spirit magic, Braxton could sense whenever someone singled him out, watch their approach, and sidestep their assault before striking back in a way that exploited their weaknesses. Together with Shelindûhin, he swung the Unicorn Blade with masterful precision, striking crippling blows against his larger opponents, as he pressed deeper into the chaotic fighting. But the strain of maintaining the high energy required by both weapons, as well as the spirit magic’s tendril, soon overwhelmed him, and he tired fast and sweated profusely. By the time Brax had cut his way to within a few dozen yards of Morgaroth, he could no longer continue. He returned the Leaf to his belt and held the Unicorn Blade in both hands, slowing his pace.
The Mins’ worshipped leader towered ahead, continuing its unstoppable rampage through the allied forces. It was the Empire commander, Breem, however, who reached Morgaroth first, emerging from among the purple-and-white banners of Braxton’s homeland fighters to stop the creature’s zealous advancement. The nearby Min warriors seemed to shy away from this confident newcomer, sensing in Breem a formidable foe and engaging instead the other human soldiers who rallied around their seasoned commander. Morgaroth eyed its smaller opponent eagerly, and for one brief moment, a small clearing formed among the frenzy of the surrounding battle, allowing the two opponents to face off against each other.
Morgaroth made a loud, guttural roar that temporarily drowned out the war around them. It conveyed the distinct impression of some ferocious beast preparing to pounce on its helpless victim, raising the hairs on the back of Brax’s neck. Breem, however, seemed unaffected by the sound and slowly nodded his acceptance, his many years of disciplined military experience obviously protecting him from the fear-inducing call. Uninterested in sizing up its opponent, Morgaroth attacked, covering the distance to Breem in a single bound, its speed surprising for its size. It li
fted its weapon high above its head, bellowing as it went, intent on crushing its foe. But Breem anticipated the move and raised his sword in both hands, blocking Morgaroth’s strike. The strength, though, knocked him to the ground.
Instantly, Morgaroth was upon him, striking another powerful overhand blow. The Empire commander rolled away barely in time, and his enemy’s giant weapon hit the plains. Morgaroth reacted in a fluid motion, pulling its sword free and attacking again. Breem deflected the blade, but the hooked end sliced across his left shoulder, ripping through his protective armor and cutting into his flesh. Ignoring the wound with little more than a grimace, he jumped to his feet and swung sideways, aiming for under his opponent’s ribs. Morgaroth stopped the attack, exposing its curved teeth in a malicious grin. Then it gave a series of low growls, whether in laughter or some kind of chant, Brax couldn’t tell. It allowed Breem a moment’s reprieve, as Braxton cut down another Min, trying to get closer.
When Morgaroth struck again, Breem was ready. He stepped aside more quickly and hit Morgaroth against the right thigh, opening a deep gash in its upper leg. The creature didn’t even respond to the gaping wound and slashed out sideways with its sword held level to the ground. This time Breem moved a moment too late, expecting some delay from the injury he’d inflicted. The blade hit the Empire commander against his ribs, knocking him back several feet before coming to land among the dirt and debris, his weapon lost. Morgaroth was on him, planting a large foot on Breem’s chest and pinning him to the ground. It roared triumphantly. Then its curved claws sliced through Breem’s mail and buried themselves into his flesh.
Cathadeus_Book One of the Walking Gates Page 27
