by Joseph Lallo
"You, beast. Kill the elf. Half of you cloaks help. The rest of you and this other beast can help me with this one. Kill the girl if you must, but aim to injure," the woman ordered, wheezing a bit and sputtering blood. "You caught my lung as well. How irritating."
#
"She with the white mark has had her place on the path threatened," Hollow spoke.
As before, Hollow spoke in a torrent of different tones, voices, and languages, though one seemed to speak far louder than the rest. He rose into the air until the chain securing his wrist to the floor grew taught. His head, legs, and free arm all hung limply, as though only the left arm had any life in it.
"Who? Who has threatened her? What should be done? What can I do?" Deacon managed to gasp.
He should have been thinking of his own safety. He should have been thinking about the fact that this was a momentous occasion. He should have been thinking about how many policies he had broken, and the consequences. He only thought about the answers to his questions.
"There are trespassers on the path. Shadows in the field," a shudder went through Hollow's body.
The fingers opened and Deacon dropped to the ground. Life was flowing into the other limbs now. They began to twitch. The frail form strained against the chains as it was jerked by unseen hands from one part of the room to another. Deacon scrambled back to a well defined line on the ground, indicating the extent of the chain's reach. He rushed to take down the cryptic sentences that poured out as a hundred voices seemed to join the chorus of prediction.
"The light are darkened. Two fingers are not a fist. Selections. Decisions. White has become black. Gray may become white. Learners define learned. A long journey, necessary and deadly, is made safely in a single step. A worthy life can begin when an unworthy life ends," the voices whispered.
Deacon was hard pressed to record all that he heard. Then, faintly, far below the other voices, the voice that had dominated the others in the first few sentences could be heard. It was quietly but insistently chanting a single phrase. Deacon strained to hear it. Something told him that of all of these voices, this is the one that had answered his pleas. This was Tober. He tried his best to filter out the voices of the other spirits, each offering up precious hints at future times. His spare stylus was still. The voice was so soft, so quiet. What was he saying? The door swung open and Karr entered. He had felt guilty abandoning his post, and was more than a little frightened that he would be punished for doing so.
"He is speaking! Deacon! Why didn't you call for the others? Why aren't you writing?" the apprentice cried, but the wizard remained still.
What was this voice saying?
#
The cloaks, at least fifty of them, drifted quickly to their assigned targets. The more massive dragoyle charged at Desmeres. He frenziedly rummaged through the bag as the beast pounded toward him, trampling a pair of the cloaks in the process. The hulking thing was steps away when he pulled out a large glass ampoule and hurled it at the creature. A clear liquid burst from the broken container and coated the monster's face. Instantly the liquid crystallized and hardened. Desmeres dove aside as an intended bite turned into a head butt that collided with the ground. In a mere moment there was a swarm of cloaks drifting in ever decreasing circles around them. Myn dug her claws into the ground, her gaze locked on the enormous creature that was thrashing about clawing at its face. Desmeres pulled a thin red flask from his bag and hurled it at the nearest cloak with lethal accuracy. It passed through where the body should have been and slid harmlessly to the ground without breaking.
"It's no good. There is nothing to hit!" he cried.
The cloaks were very nearly upon them. Desmeres turned to the dragoyle, which was raking the substance off of its face already. He pulled out a second red vial and hurled it at the beast. It struck, shattered, and splashed the creature with a wave of fire. After burning intensely for a few moments, the flames subsided, leaving the creature virtually unharmed. Desmeres looked helplessly through the bag for something that might do some good. Meanwhile Lain managed to snatch up his sword again, only to roll to avoid the crushing foot of the other dragoyle. The beast opened its maw and a cloud of black mist erupted forth. A swath of the dark stuff cut across the crowd of cloaks that Lain dove through. Everything that the mist touched hissed violently. The unlucky cloaks that received a coating released an unholy screech. Most of them quickly succumbed to widening holes being eaten through them. With a series of deft sidesteps and dives, Lain made his way to the woman. The creatures kept their distance, wary of injuring their master.
"Oh, to hell with it! Myranda cover your eyes and brace yourself!" Desmeres ordered.
Myranda quickly did as she was told. Desmeres gave the bag a long, low swing and released it in its entirety at the beast. The bag struck with a shatter of glass, followed immediately by a sound that defied description. The roar of thunder, the crackle of fire, and all manner of whistling, rumbling, and howling explosions melded into one deafening sound. It was accompanied by the most dazzling of light shows. Shafts of red, blue, orange, and white danced momentarily through clouds of fire, smoke, and debris that trailed away in the mighty wind to form a long, billowing stream. The force of the blast shredded half a dozen of the nearby cloaks and singed a dozen others. Desmeres was hurled backward by the blast. Myranda dropped to the ground, Myn crouching just in front of her. The rush of wind from the explosion momentarily outpaced the wind already whipping through the field. Through squinting eyes, Myranda hoped to see cloaks being torn away from her by the force of the lingering blast, but instead she saw a pair of legs, black as a silhouette and ending in a trio of vicious claws, cleaving the icy ground. The limbs seemed to fade into nothingness as they approached the flapping cloak, just as the clawed hands did when they attacked. Thus anchored, the horrid creatures managed to hold their positions.
Lain's sword clashed with the woman's halberd again and again. This person should have been dead, but somehow she matched his speed and strength. As the battle raged on, the woman seemed to smile, as though she appreciated the skill of her opponent. Unfortunately, the mismatched weapons were working in the woman's favor. Whenever Lain managed to step near enough to score a blow with his sword, the woman switched to the offensive, pushing him back to the length of the longer halberd's reach. With that much distance between their target and their master, the cloaks were emboldened to offer a few strikes. Pitch black phantom limbs whispered into solidity, slashed at him, and vanished again in one lightning motion. Already tears in his clothes were showing a mixture of orange fur and crimson blood. In front of him was the woman, behind was the dragoyle, and cloaks churned in a ring around them. There was little hope for escape.
Desmeres’ explosion finally subsided, revealing a crater alternately frozen, charred, dissolved, petrified, and pulverized. There was nothing of the beast left but a handful of shattered, stony pieces of whatever it was that it had been made of and a sizzling puddle of the same thick black substance that Myranda had discovered in the field where all of this madness began. She struggled to her feet, awash in a sea of cloaks. They clutched and clawed at her, but did not attack. Myn snapped at them with her mouth and lashed at them with her tail, but regardless of what she did, the creatures were unaffected, and without orders regarding the dragon, the cloaks simply ignored her. The girl drew her mind into a failed attempt at a spell that robbed her of the strength to stand and she dropped to the ground. Desmeres was on his feet again and sprinting to her, slashing with a pair of medium sized daggers he had pulled from concealed sheaths. His style was a frenzied one, more focused on keeping the fluttering monsters away from him than killing them. The creatures had a way of sweeping in for quick slashes and retreating again with a speed and fluidity that no creature that had to rely on legs would be able to manage, and when met with the keen edge of his weapons, they tended to turn back before doing any real damage. With each step he took they grew bolder, and by the time he reached Myranda he’d rece
ived more than a few deep scratches without managing to destroy a single cloak. The elf snatched up the girl, hefting her onto his shoulders. Myn nipped and pulled at the creatures that attempted to pull her down.
"Clear a path to the fort!" Desmeres ordered as a claw landed a painful blow across his back.
The dragon was reluctant until Myranda weakly repeated the order. Like a flash the dragon leapt in front of Desmeres and, without a friend to worry about hitting, unleashed a shaft of her fiery breath. The cloaks scattered from the blazing attack. Fire quickly consumed any of the cloth demons that were touched, sending them streaking away, trailing streams of flame behind. As Desmeres trudged slowly toward the doors to the fort, periodic blasts of flame kept the cloaks at bay.
Lain had taken more slashes to the back and legs than he could stand. With a trio of swift jumps, he made his way to the other side of the woman. She turned quickly to face him, but he had turned his attention to the cloaks. With their master between himself and the massive dragoyle he had at least a moment of safety from it as it ran a wide circle around her to reach him. He swiped his sword with all of his might and sliced through the three that were attacking him. The very instant his sword met the fabric of his enemy, something unimaginable happened.
The wind ripping across the field had been every bit as powerful as a blizzard before, but now it exploded into a gust that should have torn Lain from the ground. Instead, he stood without a hair twitching on his head while all around him was dragged and thrown by the force. The wind itself seemed to be avoiding him. Lain didn't take the time to consider the cause of the bizarre phenomenon, as even this mighty wind was not enough to phase the huge dragoyle that was now charging toward him. He sprinted with a speed that beat even his earlier showing toward the sheltering walls of the fort that the others were just now approaching. Alas, they were not afforded the same mysterious protection and Desmeres had to fight for every step, while Myn dug her claws deep into the icy ground to find purchase. The pounding charge of the attacking beast grew nearer.
Desmeres reached the doors of the outer wall of the fort and stopped. The unnatural wind was causing them to swing violently, like shutters in a storm. The creak of wood and the groan of hinges could be heard even over the wind. There was no way that they would be able to seek refuge inside safely. Behind them were ten cloaks, clawed hands and feet clutching the earth as Myn had and crawling like insects toward them. Suddenly one of the doors became still before seeming to almost deliberately wrench itself from its hinges and cartwheel across the field toward Lain. He managed to dodge. The single-minded creature on his trail did not. In a monumental impact, the door shattered into splinters, knocking the creature reeling.
Desmeres stumbled into the courtyard of the fort and dumped Myranda to the ground as gently as circumstances would allow. The wind was dying down as Lain joined the others in the courtyard, or so it seemed until the trio made their way to the door to defend it. In reality, if such a word could be applied in light of the surreal events at hand, the wind was receding away from the fort, focusing on the remaining enemies. If there was any doubt that some mysterious force was trying to help them, this was the proof. The cloaks clung tenaciously to the ground, no longer advancing, but refusing to be pushed back. The dragoyle had yet to recover from the impact of the door. Only the woman, who held her halberd high with its gem shining, was unaffected.
"What is going on?" Myranda cried, making an earnest effort to climb to her feet and failing.
"I . . . I don't know," Desmeres said, a look of wonder in his face as he watched the spectacle.
Wisps of flame began to appear, streaking longer and longer in the direction of the wind, as though the wind itself was turning to fire. It soon became apparent that this was precisely the case. Within moments the whole of the field before them was awash in a sea of churning flames. The roar of fire blended with the screech of dozens of the cloaks that remained. The heat, even from the safety of the wall, was suffocating. Air rushing in to feed the flames moved with a force easily equal to the gales the flames had replaced. Trees in the distance bowed toward them, so strong was the pull. The maelstrom burned on for nearly a minute before the swirling flames drew into a tighter and tighter column, focusing into a single elongated form, positively brilliant in its radiance. Myranda squinted at the form. Just barely visible in the center of the glow was the shape of woman. It was the second time Myranda had seen this being.
"The other Chosen," Myranda whispered in awe.
#
The apprentice took up a quill and scribbled furiously. The stylus slipped from Deacon's fingers. He understood the voice. Even now it was chanting, almost silent to Karr, but clear in Deacon's head. It was a command. It was directed at him alone. Such a thing was impossible, unimaginable. Hollow did not speak to anyone. If at all, he spoke at everyone. But there could be no question. He had asked what he could do, and this was his answer. The chanting did not stop until Hollow fell silent a minute later, but even then his final words were those that Deacon had strained to hear.
The path is changing. Go where it leads.
#
The fiery form drifted in the sky, silently surveying the damage. Patches of ground hidden beneath snow for decades now smoked and steamed. Puddles of what had moments before been ice now boiled. The dragoyle, though much the worse for the experience, still lived. The woman, holding the halberd high, had also survived, as did three cloaks that were near enough to share the protection of the weapon. Seeing that her job was not finished, the mysterious fiery savior shot through the air at the woman. With a few deft twirls of the powerful halberd, the enemy struck the charging form with the blade gem. The Chosen was deflected and sent hurtling backward. The brightness of the flames dimmed significantly and seemed to disperse briefly before pulling back together. She floated, her brightness wavering, before finally it faded to nothing and her form dropped to the ground. Where there had been fire, now the form was a continuous, crystal clear mass of water. It was shaped perfectly into the same form as the fire had been. Where her feet touched the boiling pools it joined them.
"Myranda is better bait than I anticipated. Another Chosen has shown itself. Quickly, capture her too!" the woman ordered, her voice a barely audible wheeze. It was clear that the death that she had been cheating was preparing to claim her.
The cloaks obeyed, drifting hauntingly over the smoldering ground toward the fluid form. The watery woman dropped down into the pool below her, appearing to be nothing more than another puddle. They drifted near to it, remaining a cautious distance away. Not cautious enough. Tendrils of water surged up and saturated the cloth creatures. The wind, in a short severe burst, froze the cloaks solid. The watery form rose again, arms crossed and a faint look of satisfaction on her face. Her almost smug display was cut short as the foot of the now recovered dragoyle smashed down over her from behind. The water splashed everywhere, and for a moment it seemed that with that simple maneuver, the bizarre being was defeated. On closer inspection, the water soaked with exaggerated speed into the ground. A shudder nearby grew swiftly, culminating in a rift that opened. A sandy, stony version of the same being climbed out. The fingers were less human, narrowing down their length into cruel claws now. A powerful blow from the deceivingly heavy limb was quite enough to get the creature's attention. A dozen or so more followed with a speed far swifter than a creature composed of stone ought to be capable. Old scars widened, cracks opened, and thick black blood flowed. The relentless rain of blows finally reduced the weakened beast to a lifeless mound of battered rubble.
The stone form shifted its cool, penetrating gaze to the woman in the only snowy portion of the field that remained. Graceful steps sunk a few inches into the baked earth as the living statue moved toward the woman. She had dropped to her knees, one hand holding weakly to the halberd, likely the only thing keeping her from crumpling entirely to the ground. The glazed-over eyes of the woman turned to the ground. She spoke, weak whispers between co
nstant wheezes.
"Stupid (wheeze) worthless (wheeze) creatures. (wheeze) I must (wheeze) have a long (wheeze) conversation with (wheeze) Demont," she managed before dropping to the ground and into a long overdue stillness.
The stone form reached for the halberd, embedded in the ground as it had been before. The face twisted into a scowl, and she smashed the weapon with a mighty backhand. It flew an impressive distance, crashing down beyond the edge of the charred region and disappearing beneath the thick layer of ice crusted snow. Behind the fort wall, Desmeres helped Myranda to her feet. With the aid of his shoulder and her staff, she was able to walk. Lain held his sword at the ready, not yet willing to trust whatever it was that had helped them.
"There may be something to this prophesy after all," Desmeres admitted quietly as the trio approached the unearthly being.
The living statue turned to face them and, for a moment, there was silence. The surface of the creature's body was smooth as marble and seamless. It, as before, bore the general appearance of a woman, the features dulled. The face lacked a mouth, and only a soft rise marked where the nose should have been. The mark that graced the sword, Lain’s chest, and Myranda’s scarred hand stood clearly embossed in the center of the forehead. In the place of eyes were pristine, lidded white globes that had a faint glow. Its gaze was locked solidly on Lain, unblinking and unstraying. The shimmering eyes narrowed, the shine grew. Lain suddenly stepped back and drew his weapon.
"What is wrong?" Myranda asked, concerned by the showing of hostility.
