“Look,” Matty said weakly from the window she’d just unshuttered. “Half of the city is out in the bay.”
Thinking that she meant the sea was engulfing Dyntalla, Darbon went to see for himself. An audible sigh of relief escaped him when he saw what she was trying to convey.
Under the bright half-moon, two longboats were easing out toward a flotilla of ships. Barges, schooners and fishing trawlers of all sorts were bursting with people.
Darbon looked down at the body-strewn yard a few stories below them. Over by the stronghold’s main building he saw a ladder, but it was twisted and broken. The crumbled section of wall on the other side of it wouldn’t be easy to get over, not with the scattering of ogres still scavenging the dead. He doubted whether Matty could make it down, much less Trevin. Maybe he could go get help for them? If he could make it to the shore, he could swim out to the flotilla. Or maybe they could just…
The fluttering of wings overhead sent a chill of fear through him. His first thought was that it was a dragon, and he pulled his head quickly back inside. He decided the sound had been too insubstantial, too small to be a dragon, yet it was far too large to be any bird he could think of.
“What was that?” Matty asked in a hiss.
“I don’t know.” Darbon eased his head back out and looked up. Red flesh, dull yellow scales, and a long, twitching tail were attached to something sitting on the sill of the floor above theirs. A deep, throaty growl accompanied the sight and ice seemed to slide down his spine. He pulled his head back in a rush and almost bowled over Matty. He carefully swung the shutters closed. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s perched just above us.” What he didn’t say was that it radiated malice like a forge fire radiates heat. Searching the room, he was glad to find Trevin’s sword. He only wished he knew how to use it.
In the same huddle the demon had left her in on the ballroom floor, Gallarael was gathering her wits. The throbbing rage and instinctual urge to attack any and every living thing had been shattered by fear of the demon and the brutality of the blow with which he struck her. Now, memories and thoughts from the true Gallarael came filtering through the agony and confusion. What had she become? What was she? The fruity smell of a strange, erotic-looking flower lingered at the edges of her senses, and a man’s face, young and handsome, stirred feelings deep within her. The image filled her with a longing, a purpose beyond the murderous rage in which she’d been caught up.
“Trevin,” she hissed as she rose to her feet, and a vision of her claws tearing him apart assailed her heart like a hammer blow.
I picked a special flower
to make my Molly sing
and right after she kissed me
she said I want a ring.
– Parydon Cobbles
The demon’s late-night attack on the rooftop came as a total surprise. It had waited, perched on a window ledge high on Quazar’s tower, until the moon was starting below the western mountains. It used the deeper darkness of starlight to conceal its gliding approach and then struck with violent fury. Quazar was arguing with the sergeant of the archers over whether or not some of the men should try to make a run for the sea to get them some help. The wizard’s arms were splayed wide in an exasperated gesture when he took the vicious blow, but the sergeant felt the brunt of the damage.
With an ear-piercing battle shriek to instill fear in its intended victims, Raxxteriak swooped out of the starlit sky and with a clawed foot, latched onto the sergeant’s head. It twisted in mid-flight, kicking the wizard with its other claw.
The handmaid screamed out in horror as the blood and gore went fountaining from the sergeant’s neck stump and showered down over her sleeping form in a thick sheet. The others, save for the prince, woke in an instant, just in time to see the man’s body lurch a few steps like some headless marionette. Then he collapsed in a twitching heap.
One of the archers who had been on watch loosed an arrow. It sliced the demon across the hip and earned the flying hell-spawn’s full attention.
A blackened, three-digit claw pointed toward the soldier and a sizzling blue charge pulsed forth. The blast took the man clean off the roof and filled the air with the smell of brimstone.
Zeezle drew Vanx’s sword and charged the demon. He almost reached it before another blue pulse forced him to dive and roll. The Zythian felt pain shoot through his battered body, nearly causing him to lose his grip on the weapon he held, but he managed to get around the demon’s blast. With gritted teeth he forced himself back to his feet and made ready to charge at the thing again, should it pass low enough.
Orphas cast a spell. A spiral of glittering rose-colored energy moved casually through the air, arcing its path as it went so as to meet the demon. When it contacted the huge, caped beast, a surge of light the same shade of rose-red engulfed Raxxteriak. It seemed as if the big, red-fleshed demon simply started to glow.
The agonizing expression on its hellish face, and the loud bellowing howl it made as Orphas’s magic clenched its muscles into limb-curling knots, showed the truth of its predicament, though.
Strangely, even though its wings had stopped moving, the demon stayed suspended in the air, held in place by the wizard’s powerful spell. Just as the swollen veins in its neck seemed about to burst, it threw out its limbs with a triumphant howl. Orphas’s spell fizzled out, leaving the chrome-capped wizard staggering and unprotected.
The demon started for him, but banked a sharp turn with its leathery wings. Raxxteriak cast a different sort of spell down into the training yard. It hadn’t expected the second wizard, but welcomed the challenge he presented. Now the broken ladder below was piecing itself back together and a trio of ogres were rushing over to use it.
Finishing its arcing turn, the demon came back around to face Quazar. The white-haired wizard’s face was bleeding badly. One eye was a dangling ruin on his cheek, and a patch of scalp and brow was peeled over it, exposing skull, but Quazar didn’t waver. He stood in his own space on the roof with his chin out and his resolve set.
Hovering just above a sword’s reach, the demon eased closer to him.
“Remember me?” It hissed with manic glee on its devilish face. “I’m the simple Darkean you were clever enough to trap.” The demon rolled its shoulders, as if it were about to be in a fistfight in some tavern. It bobbed slowly up and down with its wing strokes and the sound of its crackling neck bones filling the night. “Now it’s time to repay the gesture, you pathetic fool.”
The demon let loose a blast, a radiating ball of white-hot power that violently forced everything before it a few feet backward. Quazar, three soldiers, and Orphas went down hard against the rooftop. The archer farthest from the blast’s epicenter went staggering over the parapet with a yelp. The force of the magic pressed the others down, pushing all the air from their lungs. The pressure threatened to crush them flat to the roof. Above them, the demon laughed again.
Duchess Gallarain and her maid huddled to the side against the knee-high parapet with the fever-racked, unconscious prince. His broken arm had become infected. Earlier, Orphas had spelled him to sleep so that Quazar could set the bone. The duchess had been tending him ever since. The maid squirmed, but even if Gallarain’s hand wasn’t firmly in place over her mouth the plump woman wouldn’t have uttered a sound.
Quazar could see Zeezle creeping up behind the demon. The yellow-eyed heathen was gaining speed and confidence with each step. The thing had calculated its hover to protect it from a human’s reach. It clearly hadn’t expected a Zythian to be among those it was terrorizing. Then Zeezle was leaping like a cat.
Quazar felt a rib snap. The magical shield he put in place over himself, just after his face had been ravaged, was feeble compared to the demon’s mighty works. Already, the body of one of the archers had caved, crushing his lungs. Quazar hadn’t seen it; he couldn’t roll to his side or turn his head, but the sound had been sickening. Without the aid of magic, neither of the remaining soldiers had a chance. To reinforce thi
s, though, another crack of bone and crushing guts came to his ears.
Gasping in the last breath before the demon’s spell overpowered his own wizardry, he fought through his pain and cast another of his own. It wasn’t to defend himself, nor was it to attack the demon. It was a simple cloud of diversionary mist that would envelop and help conceal the prince and the duchess. He only hoped they were still huddled where they had been. He couldn’t roll his head over to see if they’d moved. Even if he could, his good eye was watering and blurred so badly now that he couldn’t have seen anything. He felt another rib snap, then another, and then his air was being forced out. He resisted with all he had until blackness came over him. The last thought that went through his mind was one of thanks and relief. He was happy to disappear into unconsciousness instead of feeling himself being crushed by the demon’s evil power.
Zeezle’s leaping thrust proved futile. With its powerful tail, at the very last second, the demon wrapped his sword arm and jerked him off course. A deep, rolling blast of laughter erupted as the thing pumped its wings hard. It lifted Zeezle up into the night with a violent yank. Higher and higher they went, the unnatural force threatening to rip the Zythian’s arm from its socket.
“You like to leap like a cat, Zyth?” The demon chuckled under its breath. “We’re about to see if you can land like one.”
Zeezle’s heart hammered through his chest as he looked down. The rooftop was but a tiny rectangle among many now. They were far above it. The entire city, from the edge of the crowded bay to the outer wall, was plainly visible below him. There was no way to survive a fall from even a tenth of this height and Zeezle knew it. He did know some spells that might slow him, but nothing that would save him from the impact.
Zeezle realized he still had Vanx’s sword in his grip. He decided to use it to cut his own throat as soon as the demon let him drop. It would be a better death, his own death. He looked back up at the monster and snarled out a laugh. Letting go of the sword with his tail-wrapped hand, he caught the hilt with his other. Then, with a twisting slash, he was falling, an arm’s length of the demon’s tail still wrapped firmly around his arm.
The demon roared out. For a few long moments it dropped into a free-fall. With effort, it mastered itself and caught air into its wings again. Zeezle saw this as he twisted and rolled in the open sky. A snarl of vengeance coming over its visage, it laid back its wings and dove after him.
A moment later, just as Zeezle tried to run Vanx’s blade across his neck, the demon caught him. The sword went spinning away and Zeezle felt sharp, crushing claws gripping into a shoulder. The tumble turned into a sweeping glide. Zeezle felt a fist wrap a handful of his long hair into a knot. He was hauled up before the demon’s gaze by its powerful arms and dangled there. He felt his locks beginning to rip free from his scalp.
With slow, agonizing wing-thrusts, the demon lifted them back into the heavens. Zeezle instinctually clasped his hands around the demon’s wrist to keep his hair from ripping free.
The demon finally stopped them in a hover and turned its fanged maw into a grin. They were so far above the ground that Zeezle felt as if he might be able to reach out and touch a star.
“I should pluck you apart limb by limb,” the demon said, spraying bits of spittle across Zeezle’s face. “But no, I think I’ll drop you again, and just before you smash, I’ll catch you.” The demon laughed heartily at the idea of dropping the terrified Zythian over and over again. Then Zeezle smiled and the look obviously confounded the demon.
Zeezle was certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. But after blinking, he knew he was seeing what he was seeing. The simple impossibility of it caused him to belt out a laugh of his own.
“What is funny?” the demon raged. “Are you daft?”
Zeezle removed his hands from the demon’s wrist.
“I must be!” he yelled. He then put his feet against the demon’s chest, shoved himself out of its grasp, and went tumbling away toward the distant earth.
On an old barrel keg
in the shade I’ll be,
if Molly comes around
looking for me.
– Parydon Cobbles
The demon started to dive after Zeezle, but the thunderous roar and the blinding orange heat of hellfire exploded from right behind him. As it spun to defend itself, Pyra’s fiery breath engulfed the demon. Then her massive jaws snapped shut over his smoldering form.
“Mmmm!” Pyra swallowed with a pleased-sounding rumble. “Is this the ogre flesh you speak of?” Her tone was hopeful.
“No, mighty Fire Queen,” Vanx called out to her with both his mind and his voice. “I know not what that was, but it is a well-loved friend that is still plummeting.”
Understanding Vanx’s comment, Pyra angled into a streaking dive. The force of the air against him threatened to rip Vanx from her huge, plated neck. At Vanx’s chest, the pup gave out a displeased yelp and then pulled his little head down into the papoon. The blurry wind dampened Vanx’s eyes, but he could see the stronghold slowly taking shape below. The sun was pushing its way up out of the sea to the east and a pinkish-lavender glow threw long shadows westward from the ships and the taller towers down there. Searching the sky frantically, he looked for Zeezle, but the wind in his face and Pyra’s spiraling course kept him from it.
He heard Zeezle, though. Over the rushing of the air, a long scream cut through the sky. Using his ears to locate the sound, he found his friend with his eyes. In the last few seconds they had grown impossibly close to the earth. So close, in fact, that Vanx felt his hope plummet to his bowels. Already Zeezle was at the level of the tower tops and there seemed to be no way Pyra could pull up and keep from crushing both of them headlong into the ground. All Vanx could do was clench his eyes shut and pray that in death his friend would find his way into the Goddess’s favor, and that Pyra could somehow pull them out of their headlong dive into the city of Dyntalla.
Matty stifled a scream, but not completely. Darbon was sure he’d made a yelp of his own. The sudden crash of force against the barricaded sickroom door had come as a total surprise.
Darbon scrabbled for Trevin’s sword. He had been sleeping next to Matty on the floor, waiting for the thing on the windowsill to leave so that they might use a curtain rod, one of the drapes, and the light of day to flag the ships in the bay for help.
Something crashed into the door again, this time into the heap of furniture before it gave way as the upper half of the panel cracked apart loudly. The grunting, growling sound of feral determination came through to them. An ogre was now smashing the debris out of the doorway in order to get at them.
Darbon didn’t hesitate. He charged forth and launched wildly into the doorframe with the sword. He saw a glint of sharpened steel and felt the graze of movement slide by his head, but the sensation of Trevin’s sword puncturing into and through the beast drew all his focus.
The ogre grunted and gasped out a gurgling, raspy spray, and then Darbon felt it fall away. He held fast to the sword and found that he had to pull with some effort to get it out of the creature.
“He’s done,” he said as he eased back over to comfort Matty. Only when the butt end of a wooden spear shaft caught him in the chest did he realize that something was wrong.
“Matty?” he asked, the sword clattering to the floor as he dropped to his hands and knees and eased over to her silent form.
“Luurrv,” she gurgled through a mouthful of foaming blood. The thrown spear had gone completely through her.
“It’s all right,” Darbon lied. He cradled her head in his lap and fought back his tears. “It’s going to be all right.”
“Luurv summon…”
“Shhh,” he said gently. He knew she was going to die. “It’s all right.”
“Pno.” Her coughing attempt to speak sprayed blood across his face. “Ear me, Darb-b-by,” she gurgled faintly. The strength of her will was fading. She would say to him what she wanted to say, and he would remember it
always.
“Love someone, Darbuuuun,” she finally managed to whisper. “Luurv.” And with that, the final gleam of life in her eyes faded, leaving Darbon in darkness.
For a long time, Darbon was so caught up in his grief that he didn’t notice the other creature that came into the chamber; at least not until the faint traces of dawn’s light penetrated the cracks in the shutters and outlined the sleek black figure huddled over Trevin’s body.
Orphas had fought and killed the first ogre to climb the ladder and top the parapet. The second, though, was keeping his distance and standing guard over the ladder top so its companions could come up.
Duchess Gallarain had braved the open roof to try to pull Quazar’s still limp form over to the slight cover she and her maid had been using to watch over the prince. Unwittingly, by doing so, she had broken the spell Quazar cast over them, the spell that had been keeping them hidden.
She thought the old white-haired wizard dead at first, but a labored gasp for air that sounded wheezy and wet told her otherwise.
Faint traces of rosy yellow illumination broke the horizon and cast an eerie glow across the roof. Everyone was throwing long shadows.
Not far away, Orphas sent a white, sizzling blast that was so bright that it momentarily erased dawn’s light completely. It also obliterated the ogre by the ladder.
A grunted series of muffled curses followed the heavy thumping of bodies on the ground in the flash-blinded moments afterward. The duchess tried to see through squinted eyes, but only splotches of sapphire and ruby, and crazy white star bursts were visible. Beside her, her maid lay hugged around the prince, sobbing. It was no protective gesture; it was for the selfish comfort of knowing that she was holding on to something that wasn’t trying to kill and eat her.
Dragon Isle (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 2) Page 14
