by Sam Bowring
Finally, black-robed and pale on a black horse, his meaty hands large on the reins, his lips pulled back with fixed rabidity, was Battu. Losara knew from his travels with Bel that Battu had done the unthinkable and joined the light, but it was still a strange thing to see his old teacher riding with these others. How strong his hate must be.
‘If they keep coming,’ said Tyrellan, ‘the mander is going to tear them to pieces.’
As the group neared the shadowmander, they and the entire army behind them began to slow – all but the female mage, who broke out ahead of the others.
‘Who is that?’ said Roma.
Losara didn’t know what to tell him.
•
Although she could not feel the wind whipping her hair, Elessa Lanclara knew a moment of exhilaration. Beneath her the horse moved powerfully, speeding her on towards the great scarlet monster that chomped and champed in anticipation. The others she rode with drew away, leaving her to spearhead the charge. As she neared the line worn clear in the grass by the mander’s endless pacing, she hauled on the reins and her horse reared, its hooves working the air in front of the mander’s snapping face. Enraged by the proximity of light-born prey, the mander slammed itself soundlessly against its barrier, only making a thud when it bounced back to the ground.
‘Greetings, my pretty,’ said Elessa. ‘I believe you have something that belongs to me.’
Ignoring the frenzy of the creature, she reached out a hand and quested forth. For a moment the mander did not even register as being there – it was legacies upon legacies, tiny bits of lives departed, not hers to touch. Then, in the core of the creature, as if it floated there alone, she sensed something small and precious, like a diamond, that called to her. As she reached for it, her very being began to thrum, her soul aching for togetherness. It came towards her easily, though she had a sense of things breaking, as if she pulled it through cobwebs. The mander opened its mouth, its whole body quaking, and from out of it floated an incandescent wisp. It flitted lazily over the grass towards her, rising on the breeze, and landed on her outstretched hand in the shape of a butterfly. For a moment she stared at it in wonder.
‘There,’ she murmured. ‘Such a little thing …can you really be the cause of so much trouble?’
The butterfly spread its wings as it sank slowly into her skin. Perhaps she had imagined that drawing the last piece of her soul into herself would enliven her somehow, make her more complete …yet she felt no grand changes taking place. Whatever kernel of herself she had left behind when she’d died, it was too small to make any difference upon return.
Meanwhile the mander’s unblinking eyes fixed on her with great malevolence. It wound forward, a little unsteadily, and Elessa’s horse stepped skittishly backwards. As the creature hissed, a hairline crack appeared, running from the tip of its snout, back up between its eyes …then it put its front claw down beyond the line of its old perimeter.
‘What …’ Elessa muttered, and then realised – she had drawn the butterfly back into herself, thus severing the creature’s connection to Tyrellan. He was no longer the anchor for the creature – she was.
‘Stay back!’ she shouted at the others, urging her horse about. The mander leaped, and as its limbs stretched out more cracks appeared along them, crisscrossing its body and letting slivers of daylight shine through. She tried to give her horse a burst of speed, but it was too late. A claw smashed across her side, knocking her from the saddle. To her intensified hearing there came a muffled rip – and, as she tumbled, she realised the old dagger wound in her side had finally torn open. It would still be hidden under her illusion of a mortal woman, but she knew …the blow that had killed her had returned.
She landed on her feet in time to watch the mander land. As it set down, its legs cracked to pieces, spilling to small scarlet chunks. Without support its belly hit the ground, where it thrashed like some kind of strange snake, trying to right itself onto limbs that no longer existed. As it struggled, it continued to break itself into lumps, each representing some poor mage’s legacy spell. What would happen to these soul-bits now? Elessa wondered. Would they return to the Well, or were they doomed to sit in the grass forever, hard little blocks of claw and fang and leg? She moved amongst them, towards the last remaining part of the mander – the baleful head, lying in the ruin like the final intact piece of a shattered statue. It snapped at her as she approached and, as its jaws closed with force, it too finally disintegrated.
There came a roar of triumph, and she turned about to see Bel ripping off his golden helm, shaking free his blue curls.
‘The shadowmander is no more!’ he shouted. ‘Charge, by Arkus! For all Kainordas, charge!’
Behind him the army howled, and charge they did, with Bel in the lead.
What of me ? she sent to Fahren.
Will you not join us, Elessa, for this one last fight, some scant extra hours? Would you not rather die defending your homeland?
I did , she sent angrily, and swung back up onto her horse.
•
Tyrellan could not believe his eyes. One moment the mander had been standing there, solid as ever …the next it had crumbled to hundreds of pieces, glistening in the grass.
‘Elessa Lanclara,’ he muttered, finally having recognised her. ‘Master, it is the mage bitch who cursed me with the butterfly …who was there at Whisperwood the night we took you!’
‘Ah,’ said Losara quietly.
Tyrellan wondered if the broken bits of mander were going to come flying over the grass towards him, if he was going to be followed around by an orbiting swarm of scarlet chunks for the rest of his days. Mercifully, they stayed where they had fallen. It seemed that only the butterfly had been connected to him, the foundation on which all else had been built. Somewhere in his heart, Tyrellan knew a sharp joy – he was back to his old self again.
‘Master,’ he said, watching the oncoming Kainordans, ‘we seem to have reached a certain point.’
Losara nodded. ‘It appears so.’
Tyrellan drew his sword, almost forgotten in its scabbard. It had been a while since he’d been able to get close enough to an enemy to use it.
I can move again , he thought. You may have destroyed the shadowmander …but when you did, you unleashed me.
•
Losara rose in the air for all to see, drawing shadow power to him. When he opened his mouth, the voice that sounded was amplified tenfold.
‘MAKE READY FOR THE FINAL BLOWS,’ he told his people. ‘STRIKE THEM FOR FENVARROW.’
Cheers went up, as along the line archers drew back their bows, and shadow wards sprang from mages.
‘LET THEM COME TO US THROUGH A RAIN OF DEATH IF THAT IS WHAT THEY CHOOSE.’
His voice must have carried, for across the way Kainordans screamed defiance. At their forefront came a wave of riders – soldiers and lightfists, Saurians on dune claws, and of course Bel. Over them rose an enormous mass of Zyvanix to blot out the sun, while behind, thousands on foot flattened the earth. Their mages seemed to be concentrated mainly around Bel’s central group, and Losara could not see many wards going up on the left and right flanks. Did Bel still have the Stone, he wondered, or had that passed to others? Was his counterpart safe?
You will have to be, Bel – I cannot hold back. Your fate is out of my hands.
The Kainordan bows began to fire, and lightfists sent forth spells. Tyrellan barked an order below, and several catapults triggered towards the enemy. The leading Zyvanix parted to allow hurtling rocks passage, and light bolts from below rose to shatter them.
‘NOW,’ said Losara, ‘GET THEM.’
Preceded by arrows and shadow magic, his army charged. Graka flew past him towards the Zyvanix, while others climbed higher with cauldrons of acid. As his airborne forces divided, squads left the Zyvanix to meet them on all fronts. Beside him an old Graka, the tips of his wings grey and weathered, flapped past laboriously with a scratched bow in his hand.
‘Good luc
k to us, master,’ he puffed. ‘It was gladly that I served you.’
Strangely moved by the Graka’s stoicism, Losara waved a hand to send wind under his servant’s wings. The Graka cackled joyfully as he surged forwards.
‘I’ll catch those fledglings yet!’ he hooted.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Losara.
Far above, he noticed clouds forming, or trying to, while a high wind continuously blew them to dark ribbons. It seemed that the gods themselves were present, and trying to establish a hold on the weather!
Shall we channel to you, lord? came Roma’s thought from below.
Yes. Channel to me.
As the combined power of his mages reached him, Losara unstoppered his own. Between his thumb and middle finger he created a whirl of air, rippling with tiny blue threads. It pulsed as he fed it more, the immensity of its potential straining inside its tight confines.
‘Go then,’ he said, and flicked it at the Kainordans’ right flank. As it left his fingers there was a great whoosh , his creation expanding monumentally as it hurtled away. It reached the enemy as a whirlwind of crackling power, to smash through wards and fling bodies in the air. As it crashed and broke, its energy spilled out, sparking between armour and sending swords spinning.
Master, you are a target up there.
As Roma’s words reached him, Losara’s gaze came to rest again on Bel’s group. There was a strange ward around them, soft light and darkness both, many colours combined. He did not recognise the magic, and thus knew what it must be.
A shockwave jolted him and sent him reeling, his sinuses buzzing with foreign power. He turned slowly as he fell, dragging as he tried to maintain a grasp on consciousness.
I’ve got you, master.
He felt Roma take firm hold of his body to float him downwards, and abandoned his own tenuous grip on the air. A moment later he bumped gently against the ground, and looked up to see Roma’s concerned face, while around them others stampeded past.
‘Old Magic,’ he croaked, sitting up woozily.
‘Are you hurt, lord?’
‘No. They sought only to stun me, I think.’
‘We must kill Battu,’ said Roma. ‘It is only through his enduring betrayal that they can use their trinket.’
Kill Battu? thought Losara foggily. Lalenda would be pleased, on more counts than one. Where is she?
Target Battu , went out Roma’s command to the shadow mages. The traitor must be destroyed.
•
Heavy in his hands was the helmet, bobbing up and down to match the footfalls of his horse, the slow beats of his heart. Not putting it back on – it would only mask his heightened senses, impede the sweet air that sucked into his flaring nostrils. He was now but paces from the enemy, a long line of them charging, the shadows of Graka passing across the last short space of empty grass between them and him. He could feel the immensity of the forces behind him, the shaking ground and battle cries, as he rode at the crest, the very tip of a breaking wave.
Heavy in his hands was the helmet, and so he flung it. It flashed as it spun, over and over, turning prettily in the air to crack against the knee of a black horse. The horse stumbled, spilling its goblin rider forward from the saddle, onto Bel’s waiting sword.
The wave broke. The armies clashed.
This fancy armour had been a mistake. Too cumbersome when he needed the freedom to move, to dance, like a clumsy partner stepping on his toes. He sank his bloodied sword into its scabbard – not long to rest there – and wrenched off one pauldron with a gauntleted hand, then the other, flinging them away at the howling faces before him. Next, he pulled off the gauntlets themselves and, holding them like an extension of his hands, gave them an almighty clap together over an Arabodedas’s head. As armour and opponent fell away with a high-pitched ringing, he hoisted his breastplate up over his head, swung it by the shoulder strap and hurled it at an oncoming Graka. As he pulled his sword free again to swing it at a noxious Vortharg, his horse tramped sideways, putting him out of range …while battle-trained, his steed did not move exactly as he wanted, was not capable of sensing the right path to travel, as he was.
I need no armour . I need no horse. I need nothing but myself.
He vaulted from the horse, leaving it whinnying in alarm at its rider’s sudden departure, and landed with a clank in the greaves he still wore. Off with you , and he smashed his sword upon the joins, busting them open expertly enough to kick them off easily. Fully emerged from his metal chrysalis, he flexed with pleasure – there were no more restrictions cramping his muscles, nothing to stop him feeling the currents that coursed through the air, heralding oncoming attacks …nothing to hinder the splattering of blood on his skin.
Rapture surged through him, and he dived into the fray.
•
Lalenda made her way through the camp, manoeuvring skilfully between streams of soldiers rushing here and there.
‘Flutterbug,’ came Grimra’s voice, ‘where we be going?’
She gritted her teeth. She had been forgotten, maybe, or at least given no instructions to do anything in particular. Well , she thought, I would disobey them anyway.
She would not sit and do nothing. If they could beat the Kainordans here and now, there would be no need for Losara’s idea, and the eventuality she had foreseen could be avoided.
‘Flutterbug?’
‘We are going to fight,’ she said.
•
As the armies drove into each other, there were still plenty of soldiers back from the fighting. With the forces mostly separated, there existed opportunity for wide-scale damage.
There , sent Fahren. Battu joined him in channelling through the Stone, held by Fahren between them on the end of the staff. Each began casting a common offensive spell – a light bolt for Fahren, blue energy for Battu – but their trials the night before had shown there would be nothing common about the result.
Now , said Fahren, and they released. Their amalgam shot forth – a violet vortex with a dark centre, pulsing out spirals to leave a fast-diminishing trail in the air. It landed amongst the enemy, where it exploded stupendously, and some twenty soldiers went down screaming.
Such power , said Battu. A shame it only comes now, when I have to use it against my own.
Do not let this newfound strength go to your head, Battu. We are not invincible, and neither do we have endless reserves.
You think I don’t know that? As I stand here in the shining sun?
Stay close to Bel , cautioned Fahren. The blue-haired warrior had broken away ahead of them to plough into the shadow with reckless abandon. Battu had to admire him for a moment – he moved with such fluid grace, spinning through a group of Vorthargs, cutting them down as they leaped at him, deftly avoiding their globules of poisonous spit.
His attention refocused as blue energy bolts began to smack against their ward. At first they simply sizzled to nothing, but quickly their intensity increased, and Battu tightened his grip on the reins to steady himself.
They are targeting us , said Fahren.
Can you blame them? We brought attention to ourselves when we stunned the dreamer.
Concentrate on the ward. We need to find Losara.
Shadow mages were streaming in from everywhere, pummelling them with spells. A snake of shadow wormed a small way into the ward before vanishing, and conjured wraiths began to circle. Kainordans outside the ward began to fall at the wraiths’ icy touch. There were lightfists everywhere too, however, for Fahren had ordered that the majority of them stay close to him, and quickly conjured sunwings joined the wraiths in the air.
Bel, stay with us! Fahren sent Bel – but Bel, seemingly lost in the heat of it, did not reply.
•
Fazel slipped through the battle carrying a slight shred of hope. Target Battu had been the order, and around him other shadow mages were flocking to follow it. Battu was protected by Old Magic, and well did Fazel remember his brief encounter with it, when he and Elessa h
ad first channelled unknowingly through the Stone at Whisperwood. The power they’d unleashed had all but ignored his defences – so maybe, just maybe, attacking Battu was a good opportunity to get himself killed.
A Varenkai ahead pulled his sword from an Arabodedas and ran at him screaming.
‘Overzealous,’ he said, pointing a finger, and a bolt slammed the Varenkai in the gut. ‘But commendable.’
He added speed to his heels and zipped through the bloody crowd, coming to a stop with other shadow mages who stood on the outskirts of a growing clear area before Fahren and Battu, their strange ward wobbling under an onslaught of spells. Next to him a group was channelling together, the one who was casting sweating heavily as energy concentrated at his fingertips, readying for release.
He can’t stand any more power , thought Fazel. But he is aiming at Battu, and I have my orders.
Fazel funnelled his own power into the mage, whose eyes bugged wide as he realised another had joined the effort. ‘Too much!’ he cried, and released the massive bolt, but not soon enough to save himself. As he crumpled to the ground frothing at the mouth, the others glanced at Fazel in alarm. Meanwhile, the bolt smacked the Old Magic ward with great force, and Battu’s eyes came over to them. He pointed, and Fahren raised his staff. A moment later a violet vortex flared from the end – a combination of shadow and light energy , which Fazel marvelled at even as it shot towards them. A second later he and the mages he stood with were flung like rag dolls, and he landed heavily amongst their corpses, his bones steaming with threads of deadening power. They wormed into him, certainly doing enough damage to kill a normal mortal, and yet as they faded Fazel was disappointed to feel himself repairing.
Curse this resilience , he thought as he rose.
He tried again to approach Battu and Fahren, who were sending more vortexes at the shadow mages swarming them, but there were lightfists too, gathering in great numbers around the Throne. It seemed the majority of magic wielders were concentrated here, and the air was crackling thick with spells. Fazel raised a ward as he struggled against the barrage, and immediately an invisible grip slid underneath to rip it away, a shell of shadow in his shape falling to the ground. With surprise he took in the counterspell’s caster – from across the way, Elessa Lanclara stared at him, a mix of confusion and anger on her face.
