Etheric Knight

by P. J. Cherubino

“What are we waiting for?” Vinnie asked. His eyes turned black, then glowed orange like flowing magma.

  Astrid risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Some of the people dragged the wounded out of the combat zone while a second line formed behind her. The problem was, the remnant also formed a second line.

  “Do what you do best, Vinnie,” Astrid ordered.

  The big man squared his shoulders, took in a deep breath like a bellows, then let it out as he dropped one knee to the ground. As his palms contacted the ground, it rippled forward in a wave that knocked every remnant off their feet.

  “Charge!” Astrid screamed as she ran forward with two short swords held high in each hand.

  She drew magical energy from the Well, and her eyes glowed a deep, electric blue. Many of the remnant were already on their feet when she covered the fifteen feet between them. Three were cut down before they could attack.

  Astrid decapitated one, nearly cut the other in half at the waist and drove her twin swords through the chest of another. She could take a great deal of damage even without armor but doing so wasn’t the best strategy in a melee like this.

  She planned to fight the enemy with everything she had until they were dead, or she was. Astrid and her new friends were outnumbered. That was clear. Ferocity was the wager in which she placed all her riches as a warrior.

  The time compression of extreme violence changed the world into a patchwork of blood, broken bones, and pandemonium. At one point, Astrid found herself face to face with a first lieutenant who was part of the army she recently fought against. He spun toward her with a longsword held in both hands. In a split-second of near-fatal disappointment and sadness, she hesitated. I thought the war between us was over, she lamented. Then, before she could run him through, he screamed, “Duck!”

  Astrid ducked, and her former enemy split a remnant in half from the center of the forehead to the solar plexus. She and the first lieutenant fought back to back for a while until Moxy showed up, completely naked and covered in blood.

  Astrid’s eyes widened when she saw the pixy’s claws extended nearly a foot from both Moxy’s hands and feet. She slashed and gouged any bit of exposed flesh in sight. Astrid had to get away from her lest she be distracted by the beyond-animal viciousness of her warfare.

  Tracker was nowhere to be found. Astrid hoped he fared better than her. They’d just met, and she looked forward to getting to know another pixie.

  Funny, the things that occur to me in battle sometimes, Astrid thought as she dispatched a remnant who had cut a gash across her right side with the tip of his spear.

  Chapter Two

  Tarkon’s Fight

  On the day he used The Forge magic to build his pistols, the Grand Monk told him two things. First: never summon fire into the weapons without the dire need of them. Second: never be without them.

  He had only been separated from his pistols once before, and that was when he was jailed. He did what he thought was the right thing by not easily fighting his way out of the arrest. He was raised to respect the law. In the end, it worked out well because when Astrid liberated him, he got his pistols back. Astrid helped him find purpose again with the Righteous Dregs. Then he met Moxy, married her, and actually found happiness.

  Astrid often reminded Tarkon of how it was his complaint about ale that gave their group its name. After their first post-battle celebration, Gormer had admonished him to find enjoyment where he could.

  “You left me the dregs again,” Tarkon exclaimed when the pitcher got around to him.

  “And again I say, ‘who cares.’ Why should that matter?” Gormer asserted. “Just enjoy this beer made righteous by its liberation from the clutches of evil. Tomorrow we all might die. All we have is this very moment, the fading glory of our deeds, and each other.”

  “And these righteous dregs,” Tarkon added, then emptied the pitcher right and proper.

  It was that exchange that inspired Astrid to name them the Righteous Dregs. Ale had tasted all the better to him from that day on.

  After the truce ceremony, Tarkon put his pistols away to enjoy the celebration that followed. At the time he remembered thinking, what could it hurt? I won’t be needing these tonight. I can just focus on being with my new family.

  Now he fully understood the wisdom of that long-dead elder monk. Tarkon fought his way through hordes of remnant with only his long daggers and the fireballs he conjured.

  But stray thoughts were potentially deadly in a fight like this. Tarkon pushed them away as he contorted his body to dodge a sword strike, then gutted a remnant with his daggers. He spin-kicked another remnant, landed, slit the throat of another, and spiked a blade through the back of the kicked remnant’s head.

  Still, they kept coming. Tarkon had to get to Gormer. He was confounded. He was receiving images of the mental mage running through the crowd with his hands clutched to his head. He wasn’t in his right mind.

  But some part of Gormer’s mind must have recognized how dire the situation was, because he instinctively reached out to Tarkon.

  He followed these psychic impressions out of the assembly area and into a large, empty storeroom. The only light came from oil lamp sconces. Remnant followed him into the room. He fought around a stone pillar, using it to turn the fight into a brief game of chase that ended when he slammed one remnant’s head into the stone and gutted the other.

  Tarkon stabbed a remnant in the eye, then ran toward another who stood between two pillars with a bloody hatchet in his hand. Then, Tarkon blinked and the remnant disappeared.

  He didn’t have time to figure it out. He had to assume it was a byproduct of the mental link. But that opened the question of reality. If he couldn’t be sure which remnant were real…

  Tarkon spun around behind him and threw his dagger into the chest of one in a group of four remnant charging into the expansive room. Were they real? He couldn’t take any chances. He had to fight every remnant he saw, phantasm or not.

  Without the dagger, his hand was free to cast a fireball, then another. He’d set half of them on fire and still, they charged.

  Damn, he thought. This could be it. I’m sorry, Gormer.

  He held the remaining dagger in reverse in his left hand with the blade close to his forearm. More remnant raced into the room. Tarkon hit them with fireballs, but so much magic tired him. He needed physical energy to fight, and he was running low.

  “This is it, then,” he said in a low, calm voice. He steadied his breath and prepared for a final stand.

  A mob of remnant charged toward him. A shadow streaked out from the darkness, and suddenly, two remnant fell in a spray of blood, their faces and necks shredded. Tarkon felt the wolfish grin spread across his face as he joined the attack.

  “That you, Tracker?” Tarkon questioned as he used dagger, fist, and foot once again to break the enemy.

  Tracker allowed himself to become visible again. He fought just as fiercely as Moxy, using his long claws to slash and stab. But he also used his hair as a weapon. Sharp objects were attached to the ends of his long locks.

  When he whipped his head forward the knife-locks shredded hands and faces. When he spun around in a blurring circle, the locks spread out like a saw blade and sliced throats or opened gashes in skin and leather armor.

  A few seconds later, a pile of dead remnant lay at their feet.

  They had but a moment to catch their breath before the sound of more inbound remnant forced them to move.

  “This way,” Tracker demanded and ran deeper into the storeroom. “They are drawn to your connection.”

  “What?” Tarkon asked, confused but following.

  “Your connection with Gormer. They can sense it,” Tracker explained.

  The stone space was filled with the echoes of numerous charging feet. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed dozens of glowing eyes in the dimness. Again, he prepared to die.

  “No way out!” Tarkon exclaimed. Tracker had led him to the back wall where piles
of old building material lay in dusty piles.

  Tracker hushed him, then beckoned him behind one of the piles. Charlie sat cross-legged on the ground, his huge eyes open wide. The giant cradled Gormer in his arms.

  Tarkon gasped. The mystic was in bad shape. His skin was paler than usual. His eyes were open and unblinking. He convulsed and flailed his arms every few seconds. And still, the remnant closed in.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know,” Tracker replied, “But he is saving us, right now.”

  Tarkon whirled to see a group of remnant just five feet away. He was about to attack when Tracker grabbed his arm.

  “Wait,” the pixie insisted.

  The remnant looked in Tarkon’s direction. Then, they turned and ran out.

  “He’s hiding us,” Tarkon guessed. “And it’s killing him.”

  Somehow, Gormer had created the illusion that they weren’t there.

  Back in the Assembly Space

  “You sure know how to throw a party!” a baritone voice called over Astrid’s shoulder.

  She couldn’t look to see who it was, but she recognized the glowing orange sword of Jiri Petran as he joined the fight. When she noticed he wore full armor, she realized what had taken him so long. He wisely took the time to prepare for battle.

  More importantly, Jiri didn’t have to be here. He was the first son of a neighboring protectorate. Astrid was happy to see that he rose to defend his neighbor. It gave her hope even as the odds of winning this fight dwindled. Not only that but seeing him fight was like watching ballet.

  Astrid and Vinnie felled numerous attackers, but the remnant constantly replaced their losses.

  Fresh fighters arrived carrying rifles, and the sharp clap-hiss of the energy bolts brought welcome relief. Finally, the remnant horde thinned under withering fire.

  Astrid had ordered all magical arms locked away after the battle. Friends and former enemies alike agreed. But someone tonight had the good sense to break the weapons out of the armory.

  “Fall back! Stay low!” Astrid shouted as blue bolts of magical energy mowed down the remnant before them. The new arrivals were firing from behind. “Our friends are about to shoot us!”

  She stood her ground for a few seconds to allow people to drop back behind the obvious amateurs firing the rifles. The battle formed two fronts again, when moments before it had been a chaotic melee. Astrid found herself behind a row of fortress servants, stable hands, and blacksmiths.

  Many of the magitech rounds went wide, high, or into the ground, but more than enough found their marks. The remnant tried to form groups and charge again, but they just kept dropping.

  Suddenly, every remnant stopped dead in its tracks and stood bolt upright. An instant later, they turned in unison and raced back toward the portal.

  “What the hell?” Vinnie shouted. Astrid hadn’t seen him before he spoke. “They’re running away.”

  “Look!” someone shouted. People pointed to the east side of the space, where a stream of remnant ran full-tilt, angling toward the portal.

  As far as Astrid knew, remnant never retreated.

  “Keep firing!” Astrid ordered. “Take them out!”

  In this case, she had no compunction about firing on a retreating enemy.

  The rifles sounded again but were quickly drowned out by a hissing sound. The portal was closing. The pitch-black cracks shifted like ant trails on flagstone as the portal shrank down to a sliver, then disappeared.

  A few dozen remnant were left behind. They swung around and returned to the attack screaming oaths of death and torture. Astrid didn’t have to give the order. The rifles clapped again, dropping them all in volley after volley.

  Astrid wasted no time giving the next set of crucial orders. She called for the freshest-looking, unwounded fighters and ordered them to form patrols and search the grounds for any remaining remnant. She told everyone else to tend the wounded and bring the worst cases to the infirmary.

  “Astrid!” Vinnie called. She followed the direction of his pointing finger.

  A hulking, lumbering form headed toward her across the courtyard. Tarkon and Tracker flanked Charlie as he walked. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh. Gormer’s limp body hung in Charlie’s arms.

  Vinnie and Astrid ran to them as Charlie lay Gormer on the cold stone.

  “He’s breathing,” Vinnie declared. He took Gormer’s wrist with his meaty hands. “His pulse is steady.”

  Gormer groaned and opened his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t fight. I fell apart when I saw them, Astrid. I saw...I saw...” He trailed off and babbled incoherently.

  Astrid put her hands on his shoulders. “You saw what?” she gently urged. She had to know if he saw something important; something that could help them understand what was happening.

  “They killed my parents, Astrid, when I was three. Tore them to shreds. Ate them,” Gormer moaned, suddenly lucid. “I saw it all again. But I didn’t remember. Not completely. I saw it again, all again... It was like being there. I was there. And I did it again, Astrid...I did it…”

  “What,” Astrid urged. “What did you do?”

  The pain in Gormer’s eyes made her gasp.

  “I created the illusion that I wasn’t there. I let my parents and my sister die, Astrid. I let them die…” His voice fell to a soft monotone as he spoke, then his ranting stopped, and he lay there staring blankly at the night sky.

  “Gormer,” Tarkon soothed, dropping to his knees beside his friend. “Gormer, you were a child. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. Gormer…”

  The mage remained silent and lay completely still, barely breathing.

  Yes. It’s a War Room Again

  Tarkon sat beside Gormer’s cot in the former sitting room that was once again a war room. Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor. He hadn’t left Gormer’s bedside all night.

  The place had been part of the late Protector Lungu’s personal chambers. But as it was just upstairs from the main administrative offices, it was far too convenient to leave as personal quarters. Astrid found it much more useful as a workspace.

  But for now, Astrid kept the room quiet and calm, hoping that would help Gormer recuperate. The rest of the fortress was still a hive of anxious chaos. No one had recovered from the night before. People who had been feasting and celebrating a truce now found themselves facing a new enemy together.

  It wasn’t an ideal way to bring former enemies together, but it did just that.

  Astrid had spent the morning coordinating recovery efforts. She worked with the civil guard to ensure they’d be ready if there were another attack. But all the while, she worried about Gormer.

  He had remained in a catatonic state, eyes wide open.

  “Any change?” Astrid asked, now standing over Gormer.

  Thankfully, Moxy had convinced Tracker that if he wanted to be around non-pixies, he would have to wear clothes. The idea offended him greatly, but in the end, he compromised by agreeing to wear a teenager’s dark-gray nightgown. He had removed the sleeves and split the front from the collar down to his navel, but at least he didn’t distract people unaccustomed to nudity.

  The two pixies conversed in their strange language, which sounded like a forest full of birds and rustling creatures, as they worked with a collection of clay pots filled with herbs, moss, and fragrant liquids.

  Moxy dipped a glass rod into a cup, then dripped a clear liquid in Gormer’s eyes.

  “He doesn’t blink,” Moxy worried. “He’s barely breathing.”

  Tracker used a mortar and pestle to grind some greenery into a paste.

  “He’s very sick,” Tracker clarified. “The sickness in his mind has taken over his body. We are trying to make medicine to help him.”

  “Thank you, Tracker,” Astrid responded.

  “Of course,” Tracker replied. “I am a shaman and a healer.” He shot a meaningful look at Moxy and continued. “Most of my family are healers.”


  Moxy turned away as red rose in her ivory cheeks.

  Don’t know what that was about, Astrid thought.

  She checked the weight-driven clock on the wall. “It’s been nearly ten hours,” Astrid observed.

  Nobody in the room had slept since the attack. Except for Gormer, if you could count his condition as sleep.

  “Where’s Vinnie?” Astrid wondered, suddenly noticing the absence of the scientist-mage.

  Tarkon had a ready answer. “He stopped in here right after the fight, grabbed some books and his tools, then ran off. Said something about his workshop and gathering minds and hands for the task.”

  Astrid shook her head. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I can show you what it means,” Tracker responded. He went over to a heavy wooden chest and opened its iron latch.

  Astrid jumped back when he tossed a dead animal on the long pine table. It landed with a heavy thud and lay there with its claws spread.

  “That’s like the creature you showed us last night,” Astrid gasped. “Only it’s intact.”

  “Every remnant had one of these riding the back of its neck,” Tracker reported. He pointed to a long, bloody spike that protruded from the monster’s abdomen. “This part was inside their skulls. Your shaman told us he was going to gather others like him to…” Tracker paused, “‘Work the problem,’ he said.”

  It took Astrid a moment to figure out that Tracker meant Vinnie when he used the words “your shaman.”

  “Why aren’t you with him?” Astrid asked.

  Tracker gave a knowing smile. “My place is here. Your shaman’s ways are much different from mine.”

  Chapter Three

  Vinnie’s Workshop

  The chief groom wasn’t happy about the loss of one of his stables to Vinnie, but the scientist-mage needed a great deal of space. Besides, the stables were far more numerous than necessary since Astrid took control of the Protectorate. The late protector Lungu had loved horses and kept them for his pleasure.

  Astrid found homes for many of the equine pets. They were much happier working in the forest with the Woods People. The animals allowed them to survive, so they held a high place in their culture.