by Chris Fox
An eardrum-splitting howl of draconic rage echoed off the mountains. “I. Will. Kill. You.”
58
Running On Empty
Aran swooped back down to the ward around the binder. Nara landed next to him. Crewes trotted up with Bord and Kez in tow. The spell amplification sigil flashed red, then ticked down to 0%. At least the enforcers had all been killed.
“Now that was damned impressive,” the binder said, giving them a genuine smile. “Your major joost counterspelled Nebiat herself. Ain’t never seen that happen before. Looks like she’s a mite miffed about it though.” The drifter nodded at Nebiat’s gigantic form, flapping after a fleeing tank.
“Man, I wish I’d saved one of those counterspell potions,” Aran groused, hovering outside the ward.
“Oh I don’t know,” Nara protested. “I kind of liked how both those counterspells were used. Especially the one where the Wyrm was about to nuke us, until you kicked her legs out from under her.”
“Crewes, do you have any suggestions on how we can reach this smug little bastard?” Aran asked, hopeful. “You’ve got more experience than the rest of us put together.”
“We need a true mage, and that means the major.” Crewes said, turning to face the hovertanks. They were all fleeing from Nebiat, scattering in different directions as they made for the wall of fog. “Guess that isn’t going to happen, though.”
“We’re pretty well fooked.” Kez said, slamming her hammer into the barrier. It rebounded off, sending her flying backward.
“Yeah, ya are fooked. And not the good kind of fooked neither,” the Binder taunted, spinning around and shaking his rear in their direction.
“So I joost don’t understand. How did you come to be serving the Krox?” Kez demanded, looming in her ivory armor.
“Yer just tryin to distract me, which is fine by me. I got nowhere to be until the ritual is done. Not long now, by the way.” The drifter winked up at Kez’s spellarmor. “Yer not getting trew, and in a little bit yer all gonna be dead anyway.”
“Everybody stand back,” Nara said, her voice colder than Aran had heard since…since before she’d been mind-wiped. He could feel the anger smoldering in her, could feel it bank inside of her as she summoned her magic.
Nara raised a single gauntleted hand, sketching a bright, purple sigil. She added a white, then a green. The binder watched curiously, then his eyes widened as he studied the spell. “Oh fook.”
Nara finished, and a pulse of multicolored light shot into the ward. It rippled for several moments, then flickered out of existence. Aran wasn’t familiar with the magic she’d used. It wasn’t a counterspell. Some sort of nullification?
The binder turned to run, but Aran was already moving. He sighted down his scope, lining it up with the binder’s back, right behind the heart. Aran thumbed the selector to level three and fired. The bolt took the binder from behind, knocking his body to the mud and blowing a ragged, smoking crater in his back.
“Eww,” Bord said. “Guess the mortal binders aren’t nearly as tough as the Wyrms.”
“Nara, that was incredible,” Aran said, though privately he admitted to being the tiniest bit afraid at even that little bit of the old Nara suddenly surfacing.
“I don’t even know how I did it.” She held up her own hand, examining it with wonder. She looked up at Aran and grinned. “Let’s finish this.”
Aran eyed the urn. “The major was nonspecific about exactly how to destroy this, so I’m going with brute force. Kez, will you do the honors?”
“Sure, but it might be good to stand a few meters back.” Kez trotted to the urn, giving her hammer an experimental swing.
Aran zoomed backward a good fifty meters, as did the rest of the squad. “All right. Do it.”
Kez raised her hammer and brought it down on the urn. A wave of thick grey light exploded outward, washing over everything in an irresistible wave. The magic flung Aran backward, and he rolled across the ground, bouncing along for fifty or sixty more meters before finally coming to a complete stop.
Several areas of red had appeared on the paper doll in his HUD, but the armor still seemed functional.
“Oww. Maybe we should have stood further back.” He rose shakily to his feet.
“Sir, you might want to look west,” Crewes cautioned, also struggling to his feet.
Aran pivoted to find a mass of approaching figures. Most—at least a few dozen—were Krox enforcers. Reinforcing them were hundreds of infantry—infantry Aran recognized.
“Oh no.” A wave of numbness knocked Aran back a step. “Major, this is Aran, do you copy?”
“I’m a little busy just now,” the major snapped. “What do you need?”
“The Krox have wiped out our Marines. They’re being deployed against us.”
“Have you destroyed the spirit urn?” she demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
“We were unable to destroy the water urn. Take your company and make an attempt. The ward is already down. Nebiat summoned a secondary one, but I imagine that’s very temporary and will expire as soon as she stops concentrating on it.” Her voice was tight and hard, as controlled as ever. “I’m going to get her to follow me. See if you can make it to the water urn. Perhaps we can salvage this.”
Aran spun around to face the approaching Krox army—not only the corpses of the Marines, but the dozens of enforcers. How in the depths was he going to deal with them, much less make it to another well-defended urn? His people were tired, and almost out of magic.
59
Pretty Well Fooked
Aran rolled under an Enforcer’s blade, then leapt up into the air over the Krox. He yanked his blade from a void pocket, ramming the weapon through the Enforcer’s neck. The thick hide resisted, but Aran thrust forward with a yell, slicing deep into its throat. Thick, black blood poured out, first from the throat and then the creature’s mouth. The spellblade vibrated in a way that somehow conveyed satisfaction.
His chest heaved, and a sheen of sweat had dampened his hair. He glanced around quickly, assessing the situation. Their line—if it could be called a line—was collapsing. Somehow Bord had kept the ward up, and Crewes and Kez had moved to protect him, but there was nothing to stop the Krox from walking through the ward, and they were coming in by the dozen.
“Anyone got any bright ideas?” Aran asked, backpedaling then delivering a hasty parry to knock away another sword.
“Nope. This is pretty much as bad as things can get,” Crewes called, laughing. “Woo! That’s right. Get some, scaly.”
Aran risked a glance at the major’s position, regretting it immediately. “Oh you can’t be serious.”
“What is it?” Nara asked.
Aran pointed. “Three more Wyrms just moved to help Nebiat catch the major. They’re herding her.”
Nebiat’s utterly massive form glided after the tanks, a bird of prey swooping down on rodents. Aran knew they’d never make it.
“Wait,” Nara said, darting several meters higher to avoid an acid bolt. “I’m such an idiot. Nebiat left the summoning circle.”
“Is that good or bad?” A kick from behind knocked Aran to one knee, but Kez darted forward and batted the Krox’s into the air. It sailed out of the ward, crashing to the ground forty meters outside. The creature rose, and started trotting back in their direction.
“Thanks.” He accepted Kez’s hand, and she pulled him back to her feet. “What do you have, Nara? I’ll take anything.”
“The ritual isn’t complete. If Nebiat’s left the circle, then anyone can step inside.” Nara paused to deliver a roundhouse kick to another Enforcer. The creature was flung back, and Nara peppered it with a trio of void bolts as it started to rise. The creature dropped back to one knee, and Nara finished it with a final bolt. “A true mage could take control of the ritual and either terminate it or mangle it so badly it doesn’t work.”
“You’ll never be able to reach the circle,” Bord said, his voice thick with weariness.
He’d recast the ward two more times, and had to be close to empty. “There are still half a dozen Wyrms patrolling that island, and who knows what kind of defensive force at the top. That’s assuming you could even break loose from this combat.”
“If we go for the circle,” Aran pointed out, “their binders will see it. They have to understand the danger, right? So they’ll probably pursue us with everything they have.” He grinned. “That might work out nicely.”
“Nicely?” Nara snapped. “What’s nice about any of this?”
“Remember that potion of Shaya’s Grace?” Aran asked. “The major said I should use it when it looked like everything was over. I don’t know exactly how it works, but if anything can get us up to the top of that mountain, it will be that potion.”
“I see where you’re going with this.” Nara’s voice shifted to excited. “If we fly in that direction, they’ll have to pursue. That means they’ll probably leave the rest of the company alone.”
“It also means Nebiat will probably turn right around and come after you,” Crewes pointed out. “I know you’re only wipes, but you can’t be that stupid. Ain’t no way you can pull this off.”
“What’s the alternative?” Aran demanded. He slashed through an Enforcer’s wing, then reversed the blade and decapitated it.
Crewes cocked his head to the side, then crushed an Enforcer’s skull with his elbow. He smiled. “Good point, LT. It’s been good knowing you. You’re not nearly as pathetic as I assumed.”
“Likewise, Sarge. Nara, can you climb on the back of my armor?” Aran didn’t know what the potion would do, but even without it his Mark XI was faster than her spellarmor.
“If we pull this off, I want a raise,” Nara said, climbing on.
“If we pull this off, I want a vacation.” Aran laughed. “All right guys, here goes.”
He willed the suit to administer the potion, and watched as the glowing liquid flowed out of the canister. The golden motes swirled eagerly as they disappeared.
Power thrummed through his armor, resonating with something deep inside of him. Time expanded, slowing to a mere crawl. Infinity stretched in all directions, every possibility layered on top of the next. The experience was new—but it wasn’t. He remembered a similar sensation, when he’d been inside the mind of Xal. Was he seeing as a god saw?
Aran could see his death, a hundred times over. A thousand times. A million. There were so many ways to die.
But he also saw a course of events where he did not die. There was a path through the chaos, a way around the madness of battle. If he flew perfectly, and circled the Krox line in exactly the right way, there was a hole in those defenses.
He just needed to exploit it.
Aran leapt into the air, and his Mark XI flew like never before. He darted around a Wyrm, dodging its breath weapon even as he rolled past a lightning bolt cast by another dragon. He laughed as he twisted around another spell. Acid bolts streaked up from Enforcers all over the battlefield, especially from the ritual circle itself. In every case, Aran found a possibility where the bolt did not hit. He flowed from possibility to possibility, seeing every movement he made a split second before he made it.
More Wyrms were aware of him now, moving swiftly in his direction. Aran increased speed, shooting straight up. He cut suddenly to the right, and a beam of blue-white flame streaked through the area he’d just vacated.
Aran dove, flying an erratic corkscrew pattern that flowed through the Krox ranks. He dodged spell after spell, effortlessly flowing around each.
The power went deeper than that, though. The energy he’d expended throughout the fight had returned, and more. A deep reservoir of power flowed through him, far more than he’d ever held. Enough to cast a dozen level three spells—perhaps more.
“Wait, do you see that?” Aran asked, pointing at the mountain.
“See what?” Nara called back.
“It almost looks like a face in the rock there, right below the peak. Right above the summoning circle.” Aran made for that circle, which was as empty as they’d hoped. Nearly a dozen Enforcers stood around it, but there was no sign of any binders or Wyrms.
“We can sightsee later. Just get me down there.” Nara tightened her grip around his shoulders, and Aran leaned into the dive. They fell like a star, slowing suddenly at the last second. The suit’s gravity magic bled away their inertia, leaving them hovering a few meters above the circle. “Hop off and get started. I’ll deal with these bastards.”
Aran flipped the selector to level one, and began to move through the Krox ranks. He flowed from shot to shot, unloading a continuous stream of level one bolts. Each was empowered by the potion, tinged with golden motes. The shots—every shot—found their targets. Each hit the Krox in the most vital area: the face or the heart. It made spell amplification look like a parlor trick.
Twelve Krox fell in four seconds, leaving Aran and Nara alone in the circle. The Krox outside the circle swiftly dove for cover, taking up defensive positions as they prepared a counterattack.
“That was incredible.” Nara whispered.
“Yeah well, it’s probably also short-lived. You’d better get to work.” Aran scanned the sky above. Wyrms were already gathering, and several were swooping in their direction. “We’re about to have company. A lot of it.”
60
Not On My Watch
“Sir I don’t want to state the obvious, but I think we’re in trouble.” Davidson said, as calmly as he’d have delivered the munitions report.
“Why would you think that?” Voria wielded her sarcasm like a club, clinging to the ladder as they roared their way toward the wall of mist in the distance. She stared up at the flight of Wyrms, most of whom were pulling off pursuit to return to the mountain. Most, but not all.
“Well, that uh…that Nebiat Wyrm lady, she seems to have taken a particular dislike to us. Maybe because you taunted her,” Davidson pointed out.
“Just keep moving, Captain,” Voria ordered. She watched Nebiat glide closer, flapping those titanic wings to narrow the gap between them. “We’re at the extreme edge of casting range, even for a binder of her skill.”
Nebiat disappeared. Voria scanned frantically in all directions, trying to locate her. She was about to sketch a pierce invisibility spell when Nebiat reappeared directly above them.
“Goodbye, little mage.” Nebiat breathed, and the all-too-familiar cone came down at the tank with inevitable finality.
Voria quickly sketched three symbols, drawing deeply from void magic. She bent space around her, around the entire tank. When it snapped back, the tank was forty meters west, right outside the area affected by the breath. The grass where they’d been sickened and died, a grim reminder of their own potential fate.
“Whoah. A little warning next time. I think I’m going to up my lunch.” Davidson struggled with the controls, slamming into a tree. They rolled over it and continued toward the mists. “Just keep her off me for a little bit longer. We’re almost there.”
Voria didn’t have the heart to tell him they were being toyed with. The mist would provide no safety. She looked up at Nebiat, wondering… Was there something she could have done differently? Something she’d missed, or some choice she had or hadn’t made? Should she have kept her staff instead of trading it to the drifters?
But that would have meant not having the potions—neither the healing nor the one that had brought Bord back to life. There was simply no right answer.
She wondered again at the augury she’d received. Who had sent it? Had they planned for this very moment, and if so what did they gain from Voria’s death? It was maddening, and it irked her that she’d die without answers.
Nebiat swooped lower, her face splitting into a draconic grin. Acidic saliva dripped from her fangs, each droplet hissing into the swamp below.
“I will genuinely miss you, Voria. On any other battlefield, I might even take the time to bind you. You’d make an excellent servant.” The Wyrm laughed, swoo
ping closer.
“Not on my watch, scaly,” the sergeant’s gritty voice boomed out over the battlefield. A hunk of red-and-black magma arced onto her wing, exploding spectacularly. The tiny patch of flame only served to underscore Nebiat’s relative size, but even she had to feel it.
The sergeant leapt into the air, fire pouring from the thruster on the back of his suit. He roared wordlessly, flying directly at Nebiat, who began sketching another spell—one Voria recognized.
Voria licked her lips, feeling her reservoir of magic. “If I can pull this off, you are going to be one pissed-off dragon.”
A streak of black wider than a tank shot from Nebiat’s claw, streaking toward the sergeant. He twisted to avoid it, but the spell adjusted course to pursue. His fate was sealed, unless Voria did something.
So she sketched the most complex counterspell she could. She’d been called gifted with counterspells, but she knew Nebiat was on a whole other level.
Her counterspell shot after the homing void bolt, slamming into it with a soundless explosion of light. Voria snarled when she saw the bolt had survived, but eased when she realized it was firing up and away from Crewes. She’d deflected it.
“Your antics are no longer amusing,” Nebiat roared, turning back toward Voria. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Your resourcefulness is impressive, but I can feel you weakening. How many more counterspells can you cast, I wonder?”
Nebiat sketched the same spell again, and another void bolt shot after Crewes. The sergeant fired another hunk of magma, hitting the same wing, in the same place. Nebiat roared her fury, but it turned to laughter when the void bolt caught Crewes. The energy blasted into the sergeant, enveloping his entire armor.
Crewes’s smoking body tumbled from the sky, slamming into a bog in an explosion of muck.
