by A. C. Ellas
Scorth flamed, crisping thousands of flies in his breath, reducing the number attacking him by a fractional amount. The dragon strained for altitude, the beating of his enormous wings creating a miniature windstorm that sent the flies tumbling every which way, but mostly, it seemed, toward the fleeing dark servants. The flies abruptly ceased their attack on Scorth and hammered down against Rak’s and Ioli’s overlapped shields.
The shields were holding so far, but the flies were concentrating their numbers on them, drawing in ever closer and more thickly, until the three riders and four avtappi were completely enveloped in a hemisphere of metallic red and black bodies. Rak wondered how the flies pressed against the edge of the shield weren’t being crushed by the weight of their fellows.
Rak urged the avtappi to greater speed, and now, he could feel the mass of the flies compressing their shields. With each stride, the flies grew closer, and the mass of fly bodies before them grew thicker and more difficult to force apart. He raised both hands and shouted, “Dioxnomai. Apεlthε.” Power surged from him in a black wave laced with green, passing through their shields and impacting the massive concentration of flies around them. There was an immediate and sharp reduction in the number of flies ahead of them. The banishing wouldn’t last, but Rak had bought them a few more minutes, perhaps enough to escape the battle plain.
The avtappi accelerated again. Unburdened by a fragile human rider, Pondiki translated, escaping the flies by ducking into the spirit realm. Rak wished, not for the first time, that he could follow her there, but if a mortal man entered the spirit realm, he did so only to die, for his soul would depart his body and fly home to the gods. Creatures that could survive such a journey were rare and mostly of the House of Night, sacred animals closer to the primal magic of creation than humans were. Those creatures numbered less than a dozen species in total.
The deep buzz of wings howled the katramis’ rage and hatred as they smashed into their weakening barriers from all sides. Rak pushed back, panting with the effort, and even with Ioli’s help, they were unable to entirely prevent the flies from striking. All of them, man and avtappi alike, took cuts from the flies before they’d crossed three-quarters of the distance to the tree line. Rak reached deep and tapped the almost limitless power that was his to call upon as a high priest. The power welled forth, taking part of himself with it, but that was to be expected. The shields firmed and the flies’ rage increased tenfold—a palpable sensation.
The relative safety of the tree line was rapidly approaching. The avtappi were running easily at a pace they could maintain for hours. There was no panic, and the power was flowing smoothly, denying the flies the prize they desired. Scorth was safe in the clouds, far higher than any fly could reach.
The ground rose up against them. A literal wave traveled inward from the forest toward the ruins. Trees fell, the sound of their toppling lost in the roar of the earth. The avtappi stumbled, shrieking in fear as the ground shook like a wet dog beneath them. Pyrrh went down, Pajel tumbled off his back gracelessly, unprepared to take a fall and not as experienced in the saddle as even Ioli, much less an ex-jockey like Rak.
Rak barely kept his own seat, so he was hardly surprised that Pajel didn’t. He tried to turn Vyld, to come to Pajel’s aid, but the speed they were traveling at worked against him. By the time Pajel hit the turf—and he didn’t hit at all gently—the avtappi had traveled over a dragon-length further, leaving both Pajel and Pyrrh well outside the borders of the shield Rak was casting. He turned Vyld just in time to see the flies impact the downed pair like a hammer strike. Two shrieks of mortal agony rose from the churning knots of flies that covered them so completely that nothing of their bodies were visible. And then, abruptly, there was silence. Rak sensed the void, the death of the avtappi.
He tried to reach Pajel’s body. Even though his friend was dead, he tried. He didn’t want to leave Pajel here for the flies and the chaos temple, so far from home and the embrace of their God. The ground wave was well past them—Rak could still see the ripple traveling toward the center of the plain. Vyld tossed his head, but he started back toward Pajel gamely enough. The flies rose up en masse and hurtled themselves at Rak and Vyld. Even the ones that had been plaguing Ioli turned and flung themselves at Rak’s and Vyld’s backs. In seconds, they were completely surrounded by a thick swarm of the lies, pressing closer and closer by their sheer mass.
Rak called on his power yet again, forcing the flies back as Vyld pushed forward.
Scorth whispered in his mind, Ioli has made it to the trees, but another ground wave is coming. Scorth lent him the view from above—Ioli was riding hell bent right into the approaching wave that was even larger than the previous one. Trees were toppling as the ground shook their very roots free.
Rak didn’t think even he’d be able to ride through that chaos and remain mounted. Can you reach him safely?
No, Scorth replied. But I’ll try.
Rak pushed the flies back again. They were closer to Pajel. The man had fallen to the left, so Vyld edged that way. Half his attention, however, was with Scorth as the dragon attempted to reach Ioli before the ground wave did. The problem was that the forest was far too thick for the dragon to fly into even after it had been thinned by the first ground wave. Scorth searched for a clear area large enough to fit into. The ground wave reached Ioli and Gun.
The ground heaved upward beneath them, at least twice the strength of the first wave. Gun fell, shrieking in terror, and trees crashed to the ground all around them. Rak winced as a branch slammed into Ioli, sending him tumbling in the opposite direction as his avtappi. At that precise moment the flies rushed his barriers, using his distraction to their advantage. Vyld shrieked in pain as the insects scored hits. Cursing, Rak turned Vyld back toward the trees. He had no choice but to abandon Pajel, who was dead already, in favor of rescuing Ioli, who still lived. He pushed the flies away once more, barely noting the pain of the cuts they’d given him.
The ground wave was closing with him rapidly. He used Scorth’s eyes to gauge the approach of it, measuring the width, the time it took to pass. He asked Vyld to leap just as the first tremble could be felt under his hooves. The avtappi gathered himself and sprang into the air so powerfully that, for a moment, Rak felt that the avtappi was about to sprout wings and fly. Fly. That was a great idea.
As Vyld touched down on the backside of the ground wave, Rak commanded the beast to translate. He then flung himself into the air, his wings spreading. He was nothing but a glorified glider, but he’d recently learned a secret lost in the depths of time. Reaching deep within himself, he tapped a different power than that of his God. This was a deeper magic, a primal power born of his race. Power twisted about him, changed him. It was painless and fast, an echo of the same magic Scorth used to change from dragon to man. He launched into the air a man and by the time he beat his wings on that first important down stroke, he was a wyvern.
Vyld vanished into the spirit realm as Rak strained for speed. He told Scorth, Flame them. Try to burn Pajel’s body if you can.
Scorth passed over him, his fiery breath blasting the flies back to the abyss that spawned them. Rak sped into the trees. His smaller form was able to fit where Scorth’s could not. He snatched Ioli’s body off the ground before the flies could reach them. Gun was staggering to his feet, holding one of his hind legs up. Rak commanded him to translate to safety. The advantage of the spirit realm was that it was unchanging and eternal. Even if a beast were on the very brink of death when it translated to the spirit realm, it wouldn’t die. Of course, it wouldn’t heal either, but Rak could heal Gun later, once Ioli was safe and they were back at the palace. Holding an injured beast in the spirit realm was a trick he’d done before and took full advantage of at need.
Rak cradled Ioli in his limbs, trying to keep the young man’s head from lolling and also trying to remain airborne. It was harder than it looked, flying took almost all of his concentration; it wasn’t instinctive to him and he hadn’t ha
d much practice at it. This was only the second time he’d managed the change. And if the Koilathans knew I could do this, they would never believe I had nothing to do with Kazia’s murder.
He could feel the change in the air as they passed beyond the temple’s sphere of influence and into the relative safety of the normal, healthy woods. Rak found a clearing large enough for Scorth and landed before he crashed. Scorth touched his mind and gave him a view of the battle plain they’d so recently escaped. The ground waves were continuing—each wave, as it reached the center, pushed the chaos temple up out of the ground, the blocks tumbling, as if by happenstance, back into position as the building arose. Scorth turned and showed Rak the pyres that were all that remained of Pajel and Pyrrh.
Rak transformed again. He sagged to the ground, exhausted and drained. It was hard to think, much less move, but with an enormous effort, he pushed to his feet and staggered to Ioli’s side. He collapsed more than sat then checked Ioli for a pulse. He was relieved to find that the young priest had one. It was strong and steady. There was no blood that Rak could see. Further assessment would have to wait until they reached the palace.
A rush of wind and the comforting sense of his dragon heralded Scorth’s arrival. The black dragon landed with far more grace than Rak had, cocked his horned head and regarded the two men with his blazing yellow gaze. Ah, I see. Stay here. Scorth leaped back into the sky.
Rak laid down on the ground. The grass was nice and cushiony, and this position was so much better than being upright for staring up at the stars. The fact that he was too tired to remain upright, even sitting, had nothing to do with it. He ignored Scorth’s mental snort. The sky to the east was greying with the first hint of the approaching dawn. He stared into the Vault and let his mind go, casting himself adrift upon the sea of stars. A twisted tangle of glowing paths spread before him, each path distinct from the others despite the constant shifting, overlapping and intersecting.
He flew over the river of time and considered his options, tracing the paths to their ends. Death and destruction lay all about him; in some paths, he lived but lost everything he held dear. In others, he died a failure and the Unmaker claimed victory. No path had a good outcome, except for the path he had already started down. This wasn’t a new vision; he’d made his choice the first time he’d seen it. The path he’d chosen was the hardest one, full of pain and despair, and even here, there was no guarantee that he’d live. But this was the only path he could see that didn’t end in the downfall of the Victory Prophecy and the defeat of the army of night. Once more, he affirmed his choice.
Thud.
The meaty sound of flesh impacting ground jarred Rak back into his body. He sat up and blinked at the deer Scorth had dropped just a few feet away from where he lay. He forced himself to rise and walk over to the dead animal. He drew the heavy dagger from his belt and knelt to dress the carcass. Scorth landed as Rak slit the belly open to remove the offal. Morth translated to his side, tail wagging hopefully. Rak was more than happy to share the guts and organs with the hound. Vyld returned also, snorting smokily as he claimed the heart—his favorite treat.
Rak butchered the deer with the ease of long practice then stepped back. Scorth flamed the raw meat, roasting it on the spot. Rak divided the scorched meat among them then carried his portion over to Scorth. He leaned against his dragon as he ate, taking comfort from contact with his soul’s other half. He could feel his energy levels rising, his strength returning with the nourishment. He ate quite a bit more than he expected he’d need, but there was still plenty of meat left on the haunch he’d claimed for himself when at last he offered it up to Scorth.
The dragon nipped it from his hands politely. Thank you, Rak.
“You are welcome. Thank you for hunting for us.”
My pleasure. Scorth nudged him gently. The sun is rising.
“I know.” Rak glanced at the horizon where the fiery rim of the sun was already visible and rapidly climbing into the sky. The sky above was painted in golds and pinks as the Vault of the night gave way before the House of Day. The last stars faded from view as Rak watched. “Time to go back to the palace,” he finally said and stood slowly. His legs were no longer shaky, but he was still tired and the sun sapped his strength, worsening the situation for him. He prayed for an uneventful ride back through the city.
Chapter Ten: The Morning After
Musday, the 39th of Thermon
He walked over to Ioli and grunted with effort as he picked the young priest up. Vyld knelt for him or he’d never have managed to mount while carrying the taller, heavier man. Once Rak was in the saddle, Vyld smoothly rose to his feet, turned and exited the clearing. It was slow going through the trees, forcing a path through the underbrush as they sought the track that would lead them back to the river road, but eventually, they emerged from the trees relatively unscathed, though Rak felt rather well lashed by the branches they’d pushed past. Furthermore, Ioli’s nearness was affecting him.
In his youth, he’d been a collared sex slave and as such, he’d been given all the magical potions that went with such an unenviable position. He had a deep need for sex that couldn’t be denied for long. It had already been several days since the last time he’d indulged; his slave fires, an inner burning that drove him to seek sexual relief, were already tormenting him. He grit his teeth and set himself to endure.
Vyld reached the river road by the second hour of day and moved to a smooth lope that ate the distance at a respectable rate while conserving energy. Rak closed his eyes and centered himself. Vyld knew the way as well as he did. The stallion had no need of Rak’s guidance on a routine run like this, and Rak was very tired. He continued to ignore both his surging fires and the pain of his numerous cuts until the cries of “Blood!” rose up as the citizens of Karpos saw them and reacted.
Rak asked Vyld to gallop. The avtappi shifted into the faster pace, but the populace was well practiced in spotting blood, and they continued to raise the alarm as Rak rode past. By the time he reached the market square, the unfriendly faces of the city watch surrounded him. He ignored them, but when they moved to block Vyld’s path, he touched the minds of their horses, causing them to turn aside. Vyld galloped faster, trying to leave them behind, but they gave chase, shouting for him to halt immediately.
When the watchtowers pealed out a warning and called for reinforcements, Rak sighed. More of the brown-clad police were trying to corral him, but Vyld was faster than a horse and a predator to boot. Between Vyld’s threatening motions and Rak’s continual requests of the horses to move aside, they made it all the way to the palace gates without actually having stopped or killing anyone.
“Open the gates,” Rak said flatly. As he waited for the guards to comply, he murmured, “Message.” Trelo, his pet mastigi, crawled out of the depths of his hood, clicking eagerly. “Bring Tebber.” The mastigi whirred into the air, darting toward the palace.
The palace guards looked him over with raised eyebrows and expressions composed equally of alarm and worry. “Yer bleeding,” the shorter one announced and made no move to open the gates.
Behind him, a watchman snarled, “You’re under arrest.”
Rak turned in the saddle and glared at the man. “Am I? On what grounds? Returning to the palace is a crime now?”
“Disobeying the commands of the watch is an offense against the crown. You were commanded to stop several times.” The watchman looked smug as he announced this, as if he’d won some prize.
“I am a sovereign head of state. You have no right to command me to do anything.” Rak shrugged at the man and turned back to the gates. “Well? Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to open the gates?”
“Open the gates.” Captain Jisten stood to the inside of the gates. He surveyed the scene with what could only be described as a sardonic expression. “Are you done terrifying the city? What have you been doing, high priest? You’re covered with cuts, so is Vyld, and S’Ioli looks like he’s been beate
n. No wonder Pikara wants to strangle you half the time.”
Rak only sighed and urged Vyld through the opening gates as soon as the gap was large enough to admit them. Tebber emerged from the palace as they reached the stable yard, Trelo on his head. Rak carefully handed Ioli down to the sturdy man. “Take him inside, quickly please.”
“Yes, sir,” Tebber said stoutly. “I’ll summon the healer for him, too.” He carried Ioli like the young priest was no real burden. Jisten, who had continued to follow Rak, opened the door for him. Tebber had vanished into the palace well before Rak reached the entrance to barn twelve and dismounted, hissing softly in pain.
“Bharis!” Jisten bellowed, and the stable master appeared in no time. “Take Vyld and see to him. His eminence needs tending himself.”
“I will tend to my avtappi,” Rak protested. “It is my duty.”
“No, you won’t. You will go inside and let me do something about those cuts. Bharis doesn’t need you bleeding in his stable and attracting the flies.” Jisten steered Rak toward the doors.
“I’ll take care of him, yer grace,” said Bharis anxiously. “You go with the capt’n now.”
Jisten marched him right into the parlor of the suite. Rak pulled away from him when they reached the suite and walked into Ioli’s bedroom. Tebber had laid the young priest on the bed before leaving, presumably to get the healer. Rak laid a pair of fingers on Ioli’s neck, checking the pulse, and was rewarded by Ioli’s eyes opening. The young priest looked up at him for a long moment before offering a weary smile.
“Pain?”
Ioli nodded.
“Where?”
Ioli’s hands rose off the mattress. “Back of my head and my right shoulder.”
“I will bring you morphea. Tebber is calling for a healer, though I know not what good that will do us.” Rak squeezed his left shoulder. “You did well, siflion. I am proud of you. Relax; I am going to get the morphea for you now.” Rak stepped back then turned and exited. He ducked through the parlor into his bedroom, grabbed the healers’ kit he always kept handy and carried it back into the parlor. He opened a bottle of wine, poured a partial goblet then measured out a few drops of morphea into the red liquid.
