by Watson Davis
“Finally, some fun.” Mitta knelt on the pier, grinning at him, pulling her bow out of a waterproof skin and settling her quiver over her back. Tethan loosened his axes from his back, settling them into his hands.
Up the pier, the battle had started. Tethan growled and charged, sprinting forward with Mitta beside him, and Datresh and Davina behind them, his eyes studying the chaos before him. These guards were not in blue armor but green, most of them larger than a normal human, even larger than a normal Onei.
Tethan threw himself into the battle, hacking with one hand, slashing with the other, screaming in rage, surging through an opening and charging forward. Onei, orcs, and humanoid creatures he’d never seen before were yelling around him.
Tethan shifted his weight to the left, a Council soldier’s thrust missing him to the right, the blade of the soldier’s halberd glancing off the thin leather armor protecting Tethan’s sensitive ribs. Tethan chopped down with the axe in his left hand into the flared part of the soldier’s helmet covering the juncture of the throat and the body, the force of the blow driving the soldier to his knees. Tethan twisted, whirling to his left, another soldier’s sword glancing off Tethan’s shoulder. The blade sliced through the skin but no deeper, and Tethan used his movement to reverse the axe in his right hand, striking the first soldier square in the throat, the blade penetrating the light armor there and biting deep into the soft tissue beneath.
Continuing the spin, Tethan’s right elbow struck the second soldier in the top of his back. The soldier staggered forward into Lirden, who drove one of the pointed Nayen swords into the soldier’s upper thigh, finding a gap in the armor, cutting the muscles and arteries there, sending blood spurting down onto the soggy dirt already drenched with it.
An arrow whizzed past Tethan’s head. He whirled around, ducking down, preparing to fight. Another arrow zipped past him, and an orcan warrior stumbled and fell, dropping his sword and gurgling with two arrows in his throat. Mitta called out, “Watch your damned back!”
A horn sounded, reverberating through the battlefield.
A Nayen soldier raised his sword with both hands, point down, preparing to drive it into Skruka’s back as she lay on her stomach on the ground, her hands glowing white from accumulated magic—a spell she’d been in the process of throwing before being flung to the ground. Tethan kicked the soldier’s shoulder, knocking him off the shaman, sending him sprawling. Tethan leapt onto his back, ripping the helmet off his head and cleaving his skull with a quick chop.
Lightning flew over Tethan’s head and he ducked, the lightning passing only a hand’s breadth over his head, his hair rising up as it passed. Beyond him, the lightning impaled three Nayen soldiers, lifting their bodies into the air, their mouths open and screaming, their arms and legs twitching, their swords and halberds dropping to the muddy earth beneath them.
Skruka knelt on one knee, her other leg before her, her face dark with mud and her eyes and teeth eerily white against the darkness, the lightning flowing from her glowing hands. Tethan rolled aside, away from that crackling energy, hacking at one soldier, lunging toward another, keeping the soldiers away from the mage.
That horn sounded once more, louder.
Skruka’s lightning stopped and she collapsed to all fours, panting. Tethan, standing at her side, faced two orcan monsters with onyx-tipped spears, but instead of attacking, they backed away, snarling, hate in their eyes, and then they ran away.
“Thank you.” Skruka stood up, clutching at her stomach, grimacing. She bowed toward Tethan.
He bowed to her. “My pleasure.”
The Council’s soldiers and magicians retreated from the field, running up the streets toward an inner gate. The Onei chased after them, catching them, driving them to the ground, slaying them.
“Onei!” Tethan called, holding up his axe as he jogged forward, his eyes searching the battlefield. “To me! Do not chase!”
Across the field, Peira limped toward Tethan, holding her hands out, a betrayed, confused expression on her face. Lirden emerged from a copse of trees with a Nayen sword in his hands.
“Spread the order!” Tethan yelled. “Give no chase. Return to the docks.”
“Tethan,” Mitta shouted from behind him.
He turned and found her, pointed toward her, raising his hand. “Here.”
“What are you doing?” She ran toward him, bow in her left hand, an arrow nocked, and three more arrows between the fingers of her right hand. “The temple Kalo described is behind that wall.”
She sprinted up the street toward him, leaping over the bodies of the severely wounded and the dying, ignoring their moans, searching for the Onei among the group and pointing them out to Lirden and Peira, calling out their names or their clans.
He stood his ground, spreading his arms. “If we chase, they’ll have us spread all over the city. We need to concentrate. We need to make sure they’re not leading us into a trap.”
“You think too much.” She smiled and winked at him as she passed, shouting, “A good day, a glorious day! Attack, Onei!”
“Enahu save us,” Tethan whispered.
A Plan from the Ashes
Gartan sniffed the dry air that stank of old dust and had an unclean taint to it. He stared up at the sky edging into full night, the moon up and half full, the stars twinkling around it. In Shrian, he said, “Time to go.”
“Maybe we wait longer,” Dyuh Mon said, his voice trembling, the sweat beading on his forehead glittering in the light of the moon. He sat in the rear of a wagon attached by a yoke to a horse. He rubbed his hands together, his breathing fast and thready.
Gartan smiled and put his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders; Dyuh Mon pulled away, staring up at Gartan with the eyes of a frightened doe. In Onei, Gartan said, “There is never a right time for those unwilling to dare.”
“What?” Dyuh Mon asked, his brow furrowing and his head tilting to the side.
Gartan strode forward, raising his hands, and turned to the tiny band of Skybear and Greathouse Onei warriors and shamans. Two more of the shamans also sat in wagons like Dyuh Mon, their heads bowed. “Lads and lasses, the time for your prayers has passed, and the time of their answering has come. Shamans, begin your spells.”
Gartan nodded to Dyuh Mon and, in Shrian, said, “Start your spellcraft.”
Simthil took hold of the halter on the head of the horse before Dyuh Mon’s wagon and urged it forward, whispering to it, gaining speed.
Gartan waited, peering around, checking that everyone was moving in the right direction. Nodding, he spun and jogged forward, catching up to Simthil. “This reminds me of raiding the Greathouse reindeer herds when I was a boy. Hopefully it will go just as easily.”
Simthil rolled his eyes, now running. “How did you ever get to be clan leader?”
“Let’s go,” Gartan said, laughing. He ran beside Dyuh Mon’s wagon as the mage chanted a spell to hide them from anyone who might be watching, the moon above shining down through a clear sky, showing every clump of grass, every rise and fall of the land.
The sand pulled at Gartan’s feet like powdered snow. He paced himself, keeping steady with Simthil. The other wagons and warriors easily kept up, no one wandering too far aside or ahead to ease the casting of the spells.
They stopped at the entrance to the bridge, the thin, frail building neither as thin nor as frail as it appeared from a distance.
Gekisha padded forward and whispered, “Spells on the bridge. I’ve never seen any like them. The Nayen mage needs to take a peek.”
Gartan nodded and leaned into Dyuh Mon’s wagon, knocking on the wood with his knuckles, speaking to Dyuh Mon in Shrian. “Spells on the bridge.”
“Of course,” Dyuh Mon said. His eyes opened. “Someone take over.”
Gartan put his hand on Noilla’s shoulder, asking, “Can you cast the masking spell?”
She shook her head. “I’m not an illusionist.”
Davina halted her chanting long enough
to open her eyes and say, “If we all stay close, I can cover for him.” She returned to her spellcasting.
Dyuh Mon climbed out of his wagon, stretched his legs, and jogged to the entry of the bridge. He waved his hands and spoke arcane words in tongues not meant for human speech, summoning dark forces.
The magic shimmered where even Gartan could see it, the hair rising on his back, the air leaving his lungs. His eyes went to the parapets and towers on the other side of the bridge, and he wondered if anyone up there had seen that, hoping they hadn’t been given away.
Gartan whispered, “Less of light flashing stuff?”
“No promises.” Dyuh Mon reached into the pouch at his waist, extracting bits of leaves and flowers. He passed his hands over them, whispering words before throwing them up into the air. Magic flashed at the base of the bridge, and Gartan winced. Another flash appeared midway down, and a final one at the far end; Gartan winced each time. Dyuh Mon turned to Gartan and nodded, saying, “I clear way.”
Gartan pointed down the bridge. “Safe?”
Dyuh Mon nodded, putting one foot on the bridge, easing his weight onto it. He turned to the Onei, all eyes watching him. He raised his hands. “See? Safe.”
Gartan put his hand on the Nayen mage’s back, urging him forward, grinning. “Get some revenge, then.”
Gartan crept forward, pushing Dyuh Mon ahead of him, motioning everyone onto the bridge, his eyes looking past them at the towers and battlements that appeared empty and hopefully didn’t hide clerics and mages ready to spring into action.
Gartan ushered Dyuh Mon forward to the far end of the bridge, his eyes wary, searching for something out of place, for some hint of a trap, until they reached a blank wall of stone blocks, each a few hands’ breadth high, and a few hands’ breadth wide.
“Is illusion? Secret passage?” Gartan asked.
“Blocks move,” Dyuh Mon said, stepping forward, moving his thumb along certain blocks, drawing arcane symbols, whispering words. The Onei mages and shamans leaned in, trying to hear, hoping to learn.
Dyuh Mon stepped back, peering up the wall, his brow furrowing. He slapped the wall with the flat of his hand. Nothing happened. He set his fingertips in the crease between two stones and pulled, groaning and straining. He backed away, panting, and turned toward Gartan with his hands out as though asking forgiveness, saying, “Should open. She said would open.”
He raised his fingers to his forehead, mumbling to himself.
“Ah, to the hells with it.” Gartan stared up at the wall, his fists on his hips, studying the dry stack architecture, the stones fitting together with a slight seam. “We brought ropes, right?”
“What are you planning?” Simthil rumbled.
Nohel pulled a thick coil of rope from the back of a wagon and held it up.
Gartan shook his head, glancing at the height of the wall, then extending his hand out to Nohel again. “At least one more.”
Nohel looked at his rope, looked at Gartan, and nodded. “Probably two.”
“You’re not going to climb this wall,” Simthil said.
“How is this different than climbing the cliffs back home?” Gartan asked, rubbing his chin.
“Gartan.” Simthil patted the stone. “This is a wall.”
Nohel handed one of the ropes to Gartan, keeping one for himself and handing another to Makal. “You think the climbing prayer will work here?”
“It helped me bag forty vicious Shrian mages, why not here?” Gartan winked and began chanting beneath his breath, staring up at the wall, hoping for the Skybear’s favor. He placed his hand on the wall, his fingertips finding the seam between the stones, feeling them like a crevasse. He leapt up, grabbing the wall, his boots finding purchase. He reached up, slapping his hand on the stone, feeling another seam, digging his fingers in, and lifted himself up, hand over hand, his boots scratching against the stone, up and up, until he crawled through the crenellations.
Gartan knelt, shaking his hands, catching his breath as he looked out over a small town, a handful of stone block buildings with slate roofs crowding around a central plaza with thin, wispy trees surrounding a bubbling fountain. Across from the wall, a sheer rock face stretched up into the sky, the whole place quiet, eerie and somehow sacred—until he heard a light whistle. He whirled around, looking out through the crenels, finding Nohel and Makal with more rope wrapped around their chests.
Pulling their ropes off, they tied the three sections together. He handed Makal one end and, with his voice almost a whisper, asked, “Is this stout enough?”
Makal shrugged. “For a normal man, yes. But we’ll need more men to help Simthil up.”
Gartan snickered and handed the rope to Nohel, saying, “Tie this on a merlon, and let’s get to work.”
Some of the younger Onei climbed up. Others were pulled up with the ropes, bringing more ropes, more weapons, bringing up Dyuh Mon and Davina, until finally Gartan peered down and saw Simthil struggling to get the rest of the way up. Gartan wedged his legs against the merlons and reached down, straining, his muscles quivering, Makal pitching in to help and the two of them pulling his old friend up.
Simthil found a handhold and yanked his way through, breathing hard, whispering, “Tell me we won’t have to go back down that way.”
Gartan patted the top of his head, saying, “Going down will be much faster, but much messier.”
Dyuh Mon stood at the interior edge of the wall a few steps down, rocking from side to side, humming and moving his fingers as though mad. He turned to Gartan, pointing to a temple carved out of the sheer rock wall, a series of arches and columns holding up the whole mountain, impossible as that seemed.
“Stairs.” Nohel waved his arms, catching everyone’s attention and gesturing for everyone to follow him. He turned to the stairs he’d found and began jogging down them.
“No!” Dyuh Mon whispered as loud as he could.
But it was too late.
Lights flashed on throughout the monastery, gongs crashed, and a bolt of lightning arced out from the temple, striking Nohel in the chest and incinerating him.
“Nohel!” Tayna shrieked, rushing toward him, but Makal lunged forward and grabbed her arm to pull her back.
# # #
Tethan dropped the axe in his right hand, tossing it to the ground and launching himself forward.
Mitta stood with her feet set, her bowstring drawn, her blue eyes narrowed to slits and her lips compressed into a line of concentration.
Tethan’s right shoulder struck her in the pit of her stomach, knocking her backward. Her feet caught on the steps leading up to an open doorway, the doorway of some Nayen’s home. Her hand let the bowstring loose, the string scraping across the top of his head, the arrow fluttering to the ground.
They landed on a ceramic tile floor depicting yellow and blue flowers against a white background, and they skidded on the floor, sliding back.
The hot air of the dragon’s breath whooshed over their heads, incinerating the trees and flowers outside the Nayen house where Mitta had been standing, the wood plank door bursting into flames, cracking with an audible pop. Tethan rolled, taking Mitta with him, out of the range of the flames flittering in the air, until he lay on top of her, staring down at her.
“Well,” she said, panting, her face flushed, eyes wide as they looked up at him, “that was close. How can I ever thank you?”
“If the dragon is here—” Tethan said, holding his chest off of hers with his arms extended.
“You find the magic users and have them put some glamours into place, redirect those beasts,” Mitta said. “I’m going to get everyone concentrated for an assault on that temple.”
He touched her chest between her breasts. “Don’t get yourself killed in the meantime.”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He lifted himself off of her, but she wrapped her legs around his hips, forcing him back down to her. She said, “I haven’t told you that you can go yet.”
/> “Uh…” Tethan held his breath. He gulped.
She laughed and unwrapped her legs, pushing him away. “Go already. We’ll continue this discussion later, and I’ll thank you properly for saving me.”
“You saved me earlier.” Tethan stood, holding his hand down for her.
“Then we can thank each other properly.” She took his hand, and he helped her up. She pushed him and said, “Go.”
Tethan turned and ran to the still smoldering door, peeking out, peering up at the skies, checking for the beating of wings, for gliding shadows. He ran through narrow alleys, one axe in his hand, eyes scanning the sky and the skin between his shoulder blades tingling, expecting to hear the whoosh of a dragon’s fire.
Behind him a horn sounded, the Brightfox horn, Mitta calling the Onei to assemble.
He exited from an alley onto the wharf. The doors of a warehouse stood open, the sparkling light of magic glowing within. Tethan sprinted inside.
Mian-on stood on a box, pointing, yelling in Nayen, ordering Nayen sailors from Tuth-Yoo who carried wrapped-up sails out, with Onei running beside them, guarding them.
“Mian-on!” Tethan yelled, waving his arm.
Mian-on leapt down from the box, asking in Shrian, “Something wrong?”
“Dragons,” Tethan said.
“Dragons?” Mian-on asked. “Here?”
“Can you get some illusionists together and cast a spell to draw the dragons away?”
“Yes.” Mian-on nodded and then held up a finger. “But dragons?”
“I need you to hurry up and get this done,” Tethan said, grabbing the Nayen mage’s arm, shaking him.
Mian-on looked up at him with wide eyes and said, “But this means Gal-nya must be close. Way too close.”
# # #
“What are we supposed to do?” Gartan called out, his axe in his hand, watching priests stream out of the temple, more of them from the buildings around the plaza, running out, looking around, pointing toward them.
“Protect me!” Dyuh Mon shouted. He moved his hands, muttering magical words, and a panel of lights appeared before him.
