by Adam Carter
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Crenshaw had slain a dragon, which Sergeant Canlin was still having a difficult time accepting, but the beast was lying there dead so there was not much he could say to the contrary. When Moya had then landed amongst them, a broad smile had spread across Canlin’s face. After what he had just witnessed, he could imagine together the three of them could take her down. Valok was readying spells, Crenshaw was extricating himself from the crowd, which left Canlin the one to face her first.
Hefting his axe, Canlin approached his foe.
“This has all been about killing you, Moya,” he said. “For far too long we’ve been trying to get to this moment, ever since you killed that boy. Now look at us. You with your dead dragon and the two of us allied with your lover against you. How things change.”
“Sergeant Canlin,” Moya said. “Sergeant of what, I wonder? You’re not in the army any more, you know. The baroness is actively trying to kill you. Just like she killed your captain.”
Canlin lost some of his bluster, but he fought down his emotions. “You’d say anything right now to save yourself.”
“Where’s the amulet? The real one. Has Valok told you yet that he sent Wren and the snake filth to their deaths?”
“He did mention something of it, yes,” Canlin said, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could. His efforts did not throw Moya off, though.
“If you want to kill me,” she said, “go for it. I guarantee you’ll die.”
Canlin did not waste time with further words and attacked. Moya snapped out her arm, sending a blazing red whip cracking through the air and deflecting off his axe. Canlin could not understand why Moya was suddenly moving her limbs in this fashion, for she had always before been so powerful as to exert her will without so much as blinking at her foes. It could have been an indication that her power was fading, and if so it was a weakness Canlin was eager to exploit.
Moya cracked her red whip again and it snaked about Canlin’s axe. He shook it but Moya’s grip was phenomenally strong so he let go of the weapon and threw himself bodily at his foe. Surprised, Moya threw up a quick defence, but Canlin’s fist was faster and cracked her under the chin, sending her reeling.
Before he could press his assault, the sorceress had a shimmering shield in place and Canlin knew better than to punch it directly.
“You’re weakening,” Canlin told her. “Whatever’s happened to you, you’re not as powerful as you were. Getting tired, old woman? Life getting too much for you?”
“You can make as many silly comments as you like,” Moya hit back, “but it doesn’t change the fact you killed your Captain Wren.”
Canlin could not allow comments like that to bother him. “Wren fought and died in the protection of this kingdom and you, Moya, are the thing she was fighting against.”
“Did you ever tell her you loved her?”
Canlin growled. He was a simple man, but also a private one. He did not care for anyone or anything, and was not a man to fall in love. Women were like drink or cards: a good distraction from life but nothing to ever take seriously. To even be accused of loving someone should have made him angry; instead it made him sad. Sad that Moya was correct. He had loved Wren and had never told her. And now Wren was dead and Canlin would never have the opportunity to not tell her for the rest of his life.
He was saved the problem of answering Moya’s question as Valok came to his side, palms blasting off bolts of fire which battered against Moya’s protective shield. Moya took the interruption in her stride; her hands rose and dropped suddenly, and the two men were lifted from their feet and slammed into the ground.
Getting back to his feet, Canlin grabbed up his axe once more and struck a horizontal blow so fierce it met the resistance of Moya’s shield and slowed but did not stop. It placed a terrible strain on his muscles, but Canlin was not to be deterred and forced the axe through with all his might. It was like wading through a marsh, and just as Canlin had that thought his axe flew out, the shield cracking and falling away under the pressure.
Tottering on his feet, Canlin was surprised at his success. It took him a second to realise Moya was momentarily defenceless. Valok did not waste that opportunity, for a bolt of lightning shot through Moya’s body and she fell.
Canlin could not believe what he was seeing. Moya had fallen.
Valok pressed his attack, placing both his hands together and firing a superheated beam of thick fire directly onto their foe. Moya shrieked, more in rage than pain, and Canlin watched as she disappeared into the ground.
“Knock it off,” Canlin said, grabbing Valok’s arm to disengage the beam as he looked about for where Moya might reappear.
“We incinerated her,” Valok said triumphantly.
“No, she went through the ground. She could come up anywhere.”
“Look out!”
Canlin swung about, but Moya was swifter, her fist catching him full on the side of the face and sending him down. Her blow had the strength of an elephant behind it and Canlin’s ego had to put that down to sorcery. Moya’s face was now a mask of fury, her body crackled with unreleased energies, and Canlin could not find his axe.
Valok raised his own arms at his side and looked terrified but defiant. Spying his axe at last, Canlin made a grab for it and rejoined the fight, although at the moment was content to see what damage Valok could inflict.
*
The sergeant had done his bit, but as Valok raised his arms to face his foe he knew it was all down to him. This had always been a battle of sorcery, so he was destined to stand against Moya alone, without the common soldiers muddying the waters.
“A man willing to do whatever is necessary to get the job done,” Moya said. “A man willing to kill his own commanding officer, to alienate everyone around him, all for one purpose.”
“To kill you, monster.”
“No. Not to kill me. There is, I think, a far more selfish reason than that.”
Valok glanced to the crowd from which Crenshaw was still struggling to extricate himself. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then fight me with your best weapon and prove me right.”
“You mean the amulet? The thing you’ve come all this way to get back?”
“In all the excitement since I got here, I’d rather forgotten why I came. Hand it over and I won’t kill you.”
“How about I kill you with it and you won’t kill me?”
Moya shook her head, her flaming red curls dancing as they laughed. “And here I was thinking you would have been the smartest of the three. Go for it, Valok. Prove yourself. Draw the amulet and slay me with it.”
Keeping one hand crackling with energy, Valok produced the amulet of Kastra. In all his research, in all the tests he had run on the thing, he had never been able to produce worthwhile results. Faerie magic was far too powerful for anything Valok had to hand, but when drawn against a faerie he was hoping the amulet would afford him the power necessary to destroy this creature.
“I’m curious,” Moya said. “Why did you do it? Why give a fake to Asp?”
“To lose this amulet would have been tragic.”
“A lie. We’re back to the real reason you’re willing to do whatever it takes to defeat me. It has nothing to do with doing the right thing, or because you want to rid this land of my evil.”
“You’re wrong,” Valok spat. “I’m a good man. I’m not doing this for selfish reasons, I’m doing this because it’s right.”
“You want to play the hero, Valok. That word again.” She smiled. “What need have I of a sorcerer hero when I have a knight who slays dragons?”
“What need?” Valok was confused, although his determination on the amulet did not falter.
“I’ve said too much. I may have to kill you now, but then I was going to do that anyway.”
“No,” Valok argued. “No, you’re wrong. I was Wren’s conscience, always pushing her on the right path after Sergeant Canlin got her to do terrible things to peop
le. I healed her victims, cleaned up after her, I did everything right.”
“You bandaged people’s wounds as a veterinarian would a hurt dog. That’s all people are to you, Valok; poor animals in need of a hug. But don’t feel too bad, that’s the way sorcerers are. You’re trained to be sociopathic, to spend your working life amongst apes and your weekends at sorcerer parties, laughing over the various funny little tricks these pets have performed this week.”
“It’s not like that. You’re saying this to break me, just as you tried to do with Canlin.”
“True. But bear in mind one thing, Valok.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “I’m psychic.”
Psychic. The word was a knife in Valok’s conscience. He had cautioned Wren her whole career about treating people better, he had urged her to do the right thing whenever he could, but Moya was right. Valok did not meet up with sorcerers often enough to laugh at the antics of the common people, but he did think it sometimes. Not often, but enough, clearly, for it to mean something. The amulet in his hand weighed suddenly heavier with all the blood of his comrades it had absorbed.
It was done, though. It was done and whatever Valok did henceforth was all that counted.
“Demon,” he declared in his deepest voice, “by the power of this amulet I command you to depart this realm forthwith. Back to the land of the fey, back to where you can do no harm.”
Moya stared at him. “That’s it?”
“No,” Valok said. “That was your final chance.”
With a single word, Valok channelled everything he had through his body, down his arm and into the amulet. The mystic artefact sparkled with energy and became instantly so hot it fused to his skin. Gritting his teeth, Valok forced the magic through until, a moment later, it had built to a massive charge. The edges of the amulet glowed white hot; then every ounce of power the sorcerer could muster flooded through the amulet like a burst dam, spraying wide but quickly focusing and slamming into Moya, enveloping her in such a brilliant white light that for several seconds the moon was confused, certain it had been evening a moment ago.
The energy sputtered, spent, and Valok lowered his arm, the amulet crumbling, its edges still stuck fast to his flesh. His body was shaking, his brain was afire, but he had done it. He had dared stand against Moya and he was still standing.
As the light faded, he could see so too was Moya.
“You forget,” Moya said, “that’s my amulet, you idiot. And that, my friend, was your final chance.”
Valok could barely stand and had nothing left in him to fight Moya. Exhausted, he turned his gaze upon Canlin, who stood idly by, having watched the fight. The sergeant offered a shrug, but otherwise did not move. He knew Valok’s efforts were expended and that he was no longer any use in the fight.
“I didn’t mean for Wren to die,” he said hoarsely.
“Then you shouldn’t have sent her to her death,” Canlin said.
The world exploded once more with fire and Valok screamed for but a moment before the darkness enfolded upon him forever.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It had been a little heartless, but Crenshaw did not fault Canlin for allowing Valok to die. Crenshaw had his faults with both men, but this was the second friend Valok had taken from him and he shed no tears for the man. The only ally Crenshaw was left with was Canlin, and while he did not much like the sergeant he would have to use him if he wanted to win.
“We should charge together,” Canlin said. “If we come at her from two sides, she can’t kill us both.”
“I’d be willing to bet she could.”
“Not a bet you could collect on.”
Crenshaw did not like all this talk of killing Moya. Even after everything that had happened, he still liked to think there was a way to save her. Seeing her before him, older but still so alive, he wanted very much to kill Kastra and end all of this, but he still had to try to save the woman he loved.
He had been thinking a lot lately about his love for Karina Moya. He had spent a long time with her, but for most of that she had been dead and his relationship had been with Kastra. The faerie had said what he wanted to hear, acted as he wanted Moya to act, which meant their entire relationship had been a lie. Moya had died so early on Crenshaw could not be sure whether he had ever loved her.
For that alone he wanted to make Kastra suffer. For that alone he needed to talk with the being before him, whoever it was.
“Crenshaw, what are you doing?” Canlin asked.
He had started towards her without even realising, but did not stop. This was the right thing to do. It would not solve anything, for he had tried it before, although this time he had the impression she would talk to him. This time things were different. She had sent a dragon to die by his hand, and at the very least she would likely tell him why.
“Hello, Crenshaw,” she said. “We’re doing this again.”
“Why?”
“Such a broad question.”
“Why the dragon?”
“Don’t you like being the hero? It’s why I killed Valok as well. When the tales are told of this day, it’s always best to add in a fallen ally. And he was a little shady, don’t you think? The shady ally is the best to kill, because he’s the one the audience likes best.”
“No one’s going to like Valok best, Kastra.”
“So we’re using that name again.”
“It’s your name.”
“That it is.”
“Why do you want this day remembered?”
“Goodness, another why.”
“Kastra, stop playing games with me.”
“I thought you liked games, Crenshaw. I can see you’ve changed. I think we both have.”
“Just give me a straight answer.”
“All right. I think you deserve one. I need people to remember this day because it’s monumental. The dragon, the hero thing, the fallen allies, it all adds to the story.”
Crenshaw looked behind him. “The crowd?”
“A story’s nothing if no one’s there to see it firsthand.”
“You’re bigging yourself up, Kastra. If you slaughter us, you’ve single-handedly destroyed the band of heroes Wren was chasing for ten years. You’ve done what a dragon failed to do, what the baroness has floundered about for years trying to achieve. You’ll solidify your greatness in the people’s eyes and you’ll finally gain more respect than the baroness herself. You can take over the kingdom, with the consent of the people. That’s your plan.”
“My, you have been a busy little thinker.”
“It won’t work.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to kill you.”
“Kill this body? I think not. You could never bring yourself to murder your beloved Karina Moya.”
“Karina’s gone, Kastra. It took me a long time to realise that, but it’s true. Sending Mannin after us was your mistake. You should have killed her at the castle, but instead you turned her into your zombie. When Canlin cut off her head, I could only see you, and I realised it wouldn’t be so bad were you to die. Mannin’s free now, far from any harm you could possibly do her. My love for Karina’s going to grant me the strength to do the same for her. You tried to be clever, Kastra, tried your psychological terror, and it backfired. All you’ve done is turned my resolve to iron. And we all know faeries are allergic to iron, so tonight, Kastra, you’re going to die.”
“Well then, if you’re so determined, feel free to try.”
“Hey, Crenshaw,” Canlin shouted. “Catch.”
A battleaxe flew towards him and Crenshaw snatched it from the air. He did not smile, for there was no pleasure in what he was about to do. A battleaxe was an unwieldy weapon for a man with one hand, but his remaining arm was as strong as the axe itself. It may not have been ideal for him, but somehow would Crenshaw make it work.
For Karina Moya he could have achieved anything.
Swinging the axe, Crenshaw screamed, slamming the blade down in a horizontal arc whic
h would have cleaved straight through Moya’s body. The sorceress leaped backwards, balling her fists and sending chunks of rock flying out of the ground. One flew past his head, but the other struck the back of his leg, buckling him and causing him to stumble. Managing not to fall, Crenshaw brought the axe before him as a defence while he regained his balance.
“Not bad,” Kastra said. “Try this.”
The ground behind Crenshaw groaned and he watched as it rose like a tidal wave and came towards him. It rolled, like a badly laid carpet, threatening to crush him as it passed. He looked from side to side, but the carpet was so wide he would never have been able to run to the side. Instead he stood his ground, holding the axe at his feet. Like a surfer awaiting the coming wave, Crenshaw stood firm. The imposing mountain of dirt and rock descended and Crenshaw swung his axe, slicing it down through the magical construction and tearing his way through with one almighty blow.
The entire thing collapsed under the strike, for its creator no longer needed it.
“Not bad,” Kastra said. “Try this.”
The ground beneath Crenshaw shuddered and at first he feared it was opening up. As his feet began to sink he realised the faerie had turned the ground to paste. His boots hissed and his body was instantly drenched in sweat as the paste turned red, for Kastra had decided it was also going to burn him.
Tossing his axe out of the range of the bubbling pit, Crenshaw looked around for something which might help, but he was sinking fast, the liquid rock scalding his legs through his trousers. He was already down to his knees and sinking faster, yet there was no means he could see to extricate himself. The molten rock burned his chest, ate away at his flesh, and still Crenshaw fought, refusing to scream for Kastra as he sought a way out. It was only as he sank to his chin and his face began to melt away that Crenshaw knew he would not escape. He fired daggers from his eyes at his foe, determined until the end, but he had failed Moya and now he would join her.
Crenshaw fell to his knees. The pit was gone, his clothes were intact, although his flesh tingled with phantom burns. Reminding himself that most of Kastra’s magic was based upon illusion, he located his axe and rose to face her again.
