by Brian Fuller
“Gen! You’re hurt!” she exclaimed. Gen raised a finger on his good hand to silence her, uncaring of the injury he’d sustained. The Chalaine moved forward to heal him, but he gently pushed her back, his concentration fixed upon the floor. He had come to some realization.
“Save your strength, Chalaine. Get to the dais. Heal the Pontiff if he lives and do it quickly. It is the only way we will survive.”
In the blink of an eye, Gen’s sword was in his good hand. “May Eldaloth help us,” he said, breaking from his usual flat tone, which frightened her; anything that Gen feared must be dreadful, indeed.
The Chalaine turned toward the raised dais where the altar was and where the Pontiff had stood. A pile of rubble was there now, a frantic Ethris digging through it.
“What is it, Gen?” she asked.
“Go!” Gen commanded.
His urgency propelled her forward, Fenna and her mother helping. As she neared the dais, a painful buzzing sound filled her ears, and a strange circular pattern, appearing from etched grooves in the tiles of the Chapel, sprang to life, glowing with the color of flame. An otherworldly dread gripped her heart and she stopped, paralyzed by fear and unable to move. Everyone in the room froze—everyone except Ethris and Gen.
“You must go! It is our only chance,” Gen ordered again, turning and forcing her eyes to meet his. His powerful voice cut through the buzzing, and she felt herself freed, though still numb and trembling. Fenna, her mother, and the Blessed One remained rooted where they stood, transfixed upon the swirling pattern. The Chalaine tore her eyes away from it, and, after mounting the dais, she knelt on the floor next to Ethris, grabbing and pulling at rock and wood with all the speed she could manage.
“We must be quick, child,” Ethris said, laboring. “The Pontiff is our only escape.”
“I know,” the Chalaine replied. “Gen told me.” Ethris’s eyes met hers her briefly, face dirty and grave.
“Did he, now?”
As they dug, the buzzing grew louder and then died, replaced by a wail so full of hate that the Chalaine fell to the ground and wrapped herself into a ball.
“Be strong, girl,” Ethris said forcefully. “Stay with me. Fight it!” Gritting her teeth, the Chalaine fought back her fear, and she rose to her knees and surveyed the room. Only Gen remained standing, sword at the ready. Everyone else had fallen to the floor, some unconscious, others writhing in terror. In the center of the room the swirling pattern faded, replaced by a circular hole into an abyss so black that it sucked in all the light coming from Ethris’s globe. With renewed energy, the Chalaine set to the task of uncovering the Pontiff, hoping that something of life remained in him to be healed.
Abruptly, all noise stopped and the chill left, but the sense of dread doubled. The Chalaine turned again, feeling compelled against her will to acknowledge the presence of what had arrived. In the middle of the Chapel it stood, as black as the hole it had come from. Dull metallic bands reflected what illumination was left from Ethris’s light.
The demon loomed a full twelve feet tall, a mass of spikes and blades covering its body, arms, and legs. A rank, oily substance dripped from it and onto the floor, and within the depths of the over-sized helmet was darkness. It seemed dead and unmoving while emanating a silent but palpable command to fear and fall.
Gen stood directly in front of it, surrounded by rubble and crushed bodies, dwarfed and alone. His broken arm bled at his side, and, as she watched, he turned toward her. For the first time since she had known him, she understood the expression on his face, even in the poor light. He knew he was going to die. He had turned to her to remember the reason why.
The Chalaine held his gaze for the brief moment he offered it, and as he turned away, two ember-orange eyes sparked to flame within the monster, an evil force aborning inside the steel encasement. Metal scales whined as it straightened itself, and an oily, black smoke from some internal fire issued from the joints of its armor, half-obscuring it in a dark fog.
“Help me, child! I have found him!” Ethris yelled urgently. With effort, the Chalaine turned away from Gen and the demon to see that Ethris had uncovered one arm. She began pulling debris from where she surmised the Pontiff’s face would be.
“Eriss urma iggott shant daiyo!” The voice was otherworldly, deep, and full of wrath. The language, while unknown to the Chalaine, felt ancient.
“Umiel! Umiel owa’ lien shura Elde joleia ho!” The voice was Gen’s, confident and forceful. The language he spoke was different from his enemy’s—fair, though foreign.
Ethris perked up at Gen’s words. “That boy has a lot of explaining to do,” he grumbled as at last the Pontiff’s bruised and bleeding face was revealed in the weak light. “Quickly. Does he live, Chalaine?”
The Chalaine placed her hand on the wrinkled forehead.
“Torka bilex ur madda Ilch! Ilch-madda fen-gur enea ko! Chak Diggat, chak Ilch Murmit Cho!” The creature said this, and Ethris was so shocked by what he heard that he turned toward the demon.
The Chalaine followed his gaze. Gen waited, feet planted, as the creature took its first step forward toward him. The heavy footfall sent a shiver through the building. More rock tumbled from the ceiling as Gen sprang forward, hacking uselessly at the demon, which did nothing to defend itself. Gen’s sword skipped off the oil slick spikes and plating, and, as he tried to thrust it into a gap in the armor, the sword altogether shattered.
“Hurry, child! Gen knows he cannot win,” Ethris urged, though distracted. “It cannot be.”
The last was said to no one in particular and with a note of amazement. The Chalaine laid her hand upon the Pontiff’s head and tried to shut out the rest of the world, which proved difficult. With concentrated effort, what was happening on the outside gradually faded away and she searched for what remained of life in the man before her.
“He lives!” she exclaimed, coming out of her trance. “But barely.” Ethris, however, was no longer listening or near the Pontiff; he had moved to the foot of the altar rubble, chanting desperately. Thunderous footsteps boomed ever closer. Gen lay face down on a pile of rubble, bleeding profusely, arms and legs broken and bent at wild angles.
“Gen!” the Chalaine screamed.
By Ethris’s art, a translucent globe of hardened air surrounded her, Ethris, and the fallen Pontiff. The dust inside the packed air swirled, outlining the barrier’s shape in the light.
Ethris turned his head to her. “Work quickly, Chalaine. This ward will only hold it for a few moments.”
His voice was barely controlled. Sweat ran in rivulets through the dirt on his face. The Chalaine again laid her hands upon the Pontiff, letting the booming footsteps, the howls of rage, and the impact of the creature’s fury on the protective globe fade away. The Pontiff’s life ebbed low, and she knew that healing him would exhaust her strength, leaving her nothing with which she might heal Gen or—at the very least—keep him from death.
And she hesitated. Some part of her still felt she owed a debt to her young protector, and she couldn’t bear the thought of Fenna’s pain at his loss. In her mind’s eye she tried to remember his condition, trying to determine if he would live without her healing or if he were dead already. Indecision gripped her, but in her mind she pictured Gen as he was the night when he had defeated Cormith, a gash bleeding across his chest. He’d risked his life for her honor. He would do it now for her life. Doubt fled.
The Chalaine reached deep within herself and poured her life energy into the Pontiff until there was nothing left to give. Dizziness overtook her, and she fell hard against a pile of stone and wood.
She came to herself moments later, weak, drained of energy and unable to move. Before her the creature raged, a giant, spiked fist slamming down over and over as Ethris chanted and exerted his power to maintain the warding globe.
The Pontiff, dazed and surprised at what he saw before him, extricated himself from the rubble and stood just as the monster broke the shield. Ethris leapt forward as th
e Pontiff frantically started his ritual, and the Magician paid for his attempt at distraction with a puncturing hit to the midsection that sent him across the room and into a wall. He fell and did not move.
The creature stood so close now that the Chalaine could smell it, foul and sulfurous. It fixed its gaze upon her and started to step forward when a swirling pattern formed under its feet.
“Bosh! Humikk, Bosh!”
Its angry yells shook the walls, and as the Pontiff continued to chant, the chill returned to the air and the black hole opened. The Pontiff was gesturing quickly now, eyes closed and arms extended. The demon strove to escape the swirling hole beneath it, pushing forward with its might. The Pontiff chanted louder, arms shaking.
His eyes flew open. “You are finished!” The hole swallowed the abomination, which disappeared with a ground shaking rumble. The hole closed, and the Pontiff fell to his knees. All at once, cries and exclamations filled the Chapel as the creature’s hold upon its victims ended.
“Are you all right, child?” the Pontiff asked as he crawled to her side. The Chalaine could hardly think, mind in a chaos born from terror and sadness.
“Help Gen,” she cried. “Help him.”
“Your protector? Where is he?” The Chalaine could barely manage to move her arm to point where his body lay, Fenna there already, distraught and crying for help. The Pontiff struggled to his feet and left as Mirelle, Regent Ogbith, and Cadaen hurried to her side and knelt around her. Chertanne stood behind them, face pale and pants soiled with urine and dirt. Questions came at her from all sides and her vision blurred. She clutched her mother, and everything went black.
Be sure to catch the entire Trysmoon Saga!
Trysmoon Book One: Ascension
Trysmoon Book Two: Duty
Trysmoon Book Three: Hunted
Trysmoon Book Four: Sacrifice
Get more information at briankfullerbooks.com
