by Watson Davis
“Do we fight?” Simthil yelled.
“Stay low and spread out along the parapets,” Gartan called out, crouching, moving away from Dyuh Mon. “We can’t let a single blast take all of us out.”
The priests below chanted, their individual voices merging into one. Bells rang out. Wisps of smoke congealed around them, bits of dust and fire emerging from nowhere, coming together into rough shapes and forms.
Gekisha shouted at the other mages, and they spread apart, each of them moving their hands, murmuring their spells. Lightning flew from Gekisha’s fingertips, striking out toward the chanting priests; from another mage, balls of fire; from another, stones.
A few of the priests fell, a couple to Gekisha’s lightning, one to the balls of fire, and a couple more to the pummeling of the stones, but their chant continued, the shapes growing more distinct: several red-skinned orcs with crude swords of onyx, and a small red wyrm, thin and serpentine with wings where its forelegs should have been.
Dyuh Mon shouted. The lights flicked out, plunging the entire town into darkness. Dyuh Mon spun, yelling, “Their defenses are off. Attack them!”
Gartan hurled himself from the battlements, screaming, “Skybears! Attack!”
He rushed to the priests, hacking his way through them, slashing this way, that way, each movement of his axe dealing death. An orc growled and lunged at him, but Gartan deflected the creature’s sword, raising his knee to slam it into the beast’s abdomen, but it whirled around and whipped its sword at Gartan’s head, the blade glancing off Gartan’s thick skull.
Gartan fell to his left knee, striking out with his right foot and hitting the orc in its knee. The orc fell, surprised, onto Gartan’s rising axe, the spike between the axe blades plowing up through the creature’s throat and into its skull.
Gartan tossed the creature’s body away. The battle raged in full around him, mages casting spells, warriors swinging their weapons. The wyrm rose up, spewing flames from its fanged mouth, burning orcs and priests as well as catching Makal’s arm before he could dodge. Gartan rolled away out of the line of the flames, and they engulfed Gekisha, who shrieked until she toppled to her knees.
A giant stone appeared in the air and dropped straight down, crushing the squealing wyrm.
Gartan surged to his feet, shaking his head, wiping the blood out of his eyes, searching for his next enemy, seeing instead Dyuh Mon sprinting toward the temple.
An orc roared, his sword chopping through the air, but Gartan ducked, whipping his axe out to slice the creature’s hamstring, and the beast fell to its knees. Gartan leapt to his feet, and he chopped down on the creature’s thick neck with both hands on his axe.
Gartan hurdled the still quivering body. Dyuh Mon stopped before a blank section of the wall, the mage’s hands following a pattern similar to what he’d tried on the outside wall. This time, the stones moved apart, revealing a hallway leading deeper into the mountain. Gartan sprinted after him, but before he had taken two steps, two Nayen priests rushed to that same entrance, frantically trying to reseal it.
# # #
Tethan backed out of the courtyard, leaving Mian-on chanting beneath the boughs of an oak tree, sitting with his legs crossed, wisps of smoke rising from the brazier.
A horn sounded, calling for the Onei to assemble—Mitta’s call.
He stepped out onto a wide thoroughfare, peering up at the blue sky, at the Council’s dragons gliding in the air, their heads twisting as they searched for Onei prey, puffs of smoke streaming from their nostrils. As one, they pivoted in the air, their wings pumping, and they dove, angling out to the edge of the city, to a place where no Onei should be.
Tethan smiled and breathed in, realizing he’d been holding his breath. He ran down the street, shouting, “Onei!”
Before him, five Onei lugged a chest from a building, the doors shattered and hanging by their hinges.
“What are you doing?” Tethan asked, stopping before them.
“Uh…” one Onei said, looking to the others. “I mean… uh…”
“Have you not heard the horn?” Tethan pointed with his axe toward the temple looming in the center of the town. “We have to assemble for the attack on the temple.”
“This is easier, and the fighting here is already done,” another Onei said.
Tethan tapped his axe against his calves, gnashing his teeth together. “Get your asses to the battle, or I’ll see to it you have no ship to take your plunder back on.”
Another Onei shrugged and grunted, lowering a corner of the chest to the ground. “Yes, King’s Bane.”
“Are we not Onei?” Tethan asked. “Are we Shrians or Nayens to run away from battle? To take the path of riches over the path of glory?”
One opened his mouth to speak, but another spoke first, bowing. “Of course, you are right, Dragonslayer.”
Tethan raised his hands to them, smiling. “Come with me, and I will tell you when it’s time for plunder.”
The other Onei chuckled at that.
Tethan shook his head and ran through the streets, his anger bubbling inside, with these Onei following him, singing an old song. The horn sounded once more, more urgently.
Tethan followed the sound of it, orienting on it, and he found the square with Onei milling about, Mitta, Leedy, and Silmon standing in the middle. Tethan elbowed his way through the crowd, grunting, until he stood with the clan leaders.
“There should be more of us,” Leedy was saying. “We don’t have enough warriors. We should take this as a sign and retreat.”
“I agree,” Tethan said. “Our army lacks the discipline for this large an attack. We are spread out to hell and back. Let’s take what we can and go. Many of our warriors are already doing so.”
Mitta rolled her eyes. “You two worry too much. The mages have the dragons distracted. I would have liked more of our troops to be with us, but now is the time. This is why we came here.”
“If we are going to do this,” Silmon said, peering up at the sky, “we need to do it now.”
Tethan bowed his head and shook it.
“How about this plan?” Mitta said, laughing, clapping Tethan on the back. “We will lead our forces in, and you can stay outside with a group to guard our retreat, to warn us of any danger.”
Silmon chuckled. “That’s an important duty.”
“Requiring great discipline,” Leedy said.
Mitta pointed to a mixed group of wounded Onei, sitting and sprawling beneath a thin cherry tree. “There you go. Take those guys, and follow us in.”
“Yes, mistress.” Tethan bowed. “As you wish.”
“Oh, come on.” She patted him on the head. “Don’t pout. We’ll give you our leftovers.”
Tethan nodded to her and walked away, Silmon and Leedy laughing at him. He strode over to the wounded men and women by the cherry tree, where an acolyte shaman mumbled a chant, trying to heal the worst of one woman’s injuries.
A horn sounded.
The woman being treated, Peira of the Icefang, pushed the acolyte away and struggled to her feet. An Icefang man, Snupesk, with a blood-soaked bandage across his chest, grunted as he stood, grimacing as he helped an Ironcutter archer, Hobanya, to her feet. More Onei, most unknown to Tethan, all of them bearing injuries, waited for their commands.
Tethan stood just apart from the group, his fists on his hips, nodding. “Listen, gang, I’ve got some bad news.”
Peira said, “We’re fighting, King’s Bane. Don’t try and stop us.”
“Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” Tethan said, nodding his head, ambling closer to them. “We have a more important job, one requiring discipline. We’re going to guard the clan leaders’ asses as they go into the temple and plunder it.”
Snupesk growled. “That doesn’t sound like we get to fight or plunder.”
Mitta called out, “Onei! Follow me!” And the Onei roared, some following Mitta down a wide street, others charging through the alleys running parallel to the street, some
pulling wagons and carts, some of those wagons empty, others already piled high with sparkly plunder from the rich Nayen palaces.
Hobanya, the Ironcutter archer, stepped forward, ready to join the charge despite her injuries.
Tethan held up his hand. “We wait, and we stick together.”
The other Onei shuffled their feet, shifting back and forth, murmuring to each other until the square had emptied. Tethan waved his troops forward, saying, “Follow me.”
He jogged through a side street wide enough for a wagon, the moon shining down bathing the stone and stucco buildings in a bluish light. He followed the crash and clang of battle, the howling of the wounded, the bellowing of those lost to the rage of war.
The square of the temple burned, flames consuming the tall, thin trees lining the pathways, bolts of magical lightning and flames flashing through the quiet night. Tethan searched the skies for the dragons and found them far to the south, their fiery breaths laying waste to a part of the city far from the battle.
Bodies of Nayens, orcs, and Onei littered the grounds before the blocky, six-sided temple that rose up twelve floors in the middle of the city. Huge buttresses pressed up against walls inlaid with scenes of people and beasts, of dragons and orcs, of fires and winds, and at the very top, a fire burned like a star in the sky.
A semicircular staircase, at odds with the sharp angles and hard edges of the rest of the temple, led to a narrow doorway—narrow only in relation to the rest of the building, but large enough for ten men to enter standing shoulder to shoulder.
“We guard the door,” Tethan said to no one in particular, ignoring the grumbles behind him, and wanting to grumble himself.
Old Friends and Shattered Illusions
Gal-nya stood in her summoning chamber, the fingertips of either hand reaching into a summoning sphere, touching the back of a cleric’s head; the two clerics floated in the air, magical lines of force shimmering around them. Her eyes closed, her tongue caressing her upper lip, she watched through the dragons’ eyes, feeling the wind filling their wings, the sting of the fire erupting from their mouths.
“How many of them are there?” Gal-nya asked, giggling, commanding another tower be incinerated. Several soldiers ducked into a theater on the outskirts of the populated area, and a group of mages cast a spell up toward one of the dragons, their spell weak and inconsequential, the dragon feeling nothing. Gal-nya chuckled at their ineptitude. She directed both dragons to the theater, the creatures circling, spewing flames, Gal-nya forcing them to spit more and more until their ribs ached and their snouts smoked, the fire burning the theater hotter and hotter until the bricks themselves melted.
“What in the name of the darkest hell are you doing, woman!” Sissola growled, his image appearing in Gal-nya’s summoning chamber in full armor, every bit of him covered with thick, magically reinforced plate mail.
Gal-nya peeked through slitted eyes at him, saying, “If they want to run around and hide like rats, I will burn them out of their holes.”
“Burn them out of their holes?” He threw back his head and barked, his version of a laugh. “How many of them have you seen running out of those holes you’ve burned? Have you looked at the district you’re destroying? Really looked at it?”
“What?” Gal-nya opened her eyes, staring at him, seeing the images from the dragons’ eyes superimposed over him. “Of course I have.”
“They are, at this very moment, attacking your very temple, you idiot,” Sissola said, his fists on his hips. Gal-nya hated the smug tone of his voice. “Fly high and look at the mess you’ve made, and tell me what you see, but first, give my armies leave to enter your capital.”
“If this is a trick of yours…” Gal-nya said, slamming her eyes shut, commanding the dragons higher up into the sky, urging them to turn around and stare down at the district. The outskirts of her capital burned, except for five parts that appeared to be clear of damage, the smoke blowing across the area making it hard to tell for sure. The five points formed the vertexes of a pentagram centered around her temple. Gal-nya blinked, whispering, “What does this mean?”
“It means, you fool, that there are magicians casting an illusion, an illusion good enough to fool you and your stupid dragons.” Sissola laughed, shaking his head. “You’ve been tricked. May I be of assistance?”
“Stay away or I will destroy you along with these damned pests,” Gal-nya growled, commanding the dragons down to one of the clear points, only to find a small wooden shed. One of the dragons landed beside the shed and knocked it aside with a swipe of a claw, the flimsy wooden frame collapsing. An Onei shaman crawled out from beneath the debris, glaring up at the dragon, sneering, looking into Gal-nya’s eyes. The man began to cast a spell, chanting the words, his hands weaving the flows. The dragon stepped on him, crushing him and ending that spell.
Gal-nya ordered the dragons to the next clear space, finding another Onei shaman fleeing through the wrecked buildings around her. One dragon reached down, snapping the mage up in its jaws and piercing her body with its fangs, then swallowing her whole. She ordered them to the next clear area, a quiet plaza covered by a canopy of flowers.
One dragon landed beside the plaza, reaching out with its claws, tearing the canopy aside, revealing a fountain, a smoking brazier, some shops, but no mages. The dragon ducked its head down, searching for its prey, unable to smell anything apart from the stinking smoke in its nostrils.
A gong sounded.
Sissola said, “The Onei are knocking on your door, dear heart. Perhaps you should answer it and invite them in.”
# # #
The door opened. Relief washed through Dyuh Mon. He charged inside a place that felt like home, his bowels fluttering in anticipation, in the prospect of a plan reaching its successful conclusion.
Magelights floated in their cages, their light pure and white, almost painful after the darkness outside. He ran down the Hall of Night, the ceiling painted a dark blue with golden stars, the walls painted with a forest, a mountain beside a bay, a kraken flailing on a beach, its tentacles striking down with a murderous rage.
He turned down the Hall of Mirrors, with a mirror on each wall, the mirrors edged with gold, and six small golden cages hanging from the ceiling, a magelight in each one.
“Halt!” A soldier standing before the door at the end of the hall lowered his halberd, pointing it at Dyuh Mon. “You are not supposed to be here.”
“Fool!” Dyuh Mon said, flinging his arm back the way he had come. “Can you not hear the battle? The priests are being slain by northern barbarians come to steal the Source.”
“Northern barbarians?” The soldier blinked, the point of his halberd rising.
“I am the Librarian,” Dyuh Mon said, his fist thudding into his chest. “Do you not recognize me? I’m here to guard the Source, but these barbarians are out there and…” Dyuh Mon raised his hand, his eyes darting from side to side. He gasped. “Can you not feel the breeze? They’ve found a way in. Go!”
“But Yut—”
“Go and help the priests defend the sanctuary!” Dyuh Mon flung his hand toward the Hall of Night. “Now!”
“Yes, sir!” The soldier ran down the hall, his boots hammering on the floor, his halberd held high.
Dyuh Mon waited until the fool had disappeared around the corner before allowing the smile to touch his lips. He opened the door and strode in.
But there he stopped.
Yaj Yath sat on his knees before a fountain, the water trickling down into the Pool of Serenity. He jerked and peered up, a frown on his face, his eyes squinting. “Dyuh Mon?”
“Yaj Yath?” Dyuh Mon licked his lips, his heart shuddering. He gulped. “I have not seen you in some time.”
“And expected to find me here as much as I expected to find you?” Yaj Yath rose to his feet, shaking holy water from his hands, spreading his fingers as his dark eyes bored into Dyuh Mon’s. “Vellin has been asking for you. She’s been quite distraught.”
“Yaj Yath,” Dyuh Mon said, edging forward, his hands spread to appear weaker, submissive, “we have been lied to. Our entire lives, everything we believe in has been carefully constructed so that we would be like ants, going about our jobs, fulfilling the needs and dreams of monsters.”
“You lasted so long—so much longer than any Librarian before you—that the Council thought you immune to Her lies.” Yaj Yath stepped around the fountain, his bearing relaxed, his gait self-assured. He smiled, displaying his pointy teeth. “How long has She had you in Her web?”
“No.” Dyuh Mon shook his head. “It’s not like that. If you only knew.”
“What did She offer you?” Yaj Yath snorted. “Power?”
“The truth,” Dyuh Mon said, edging back away from him. “Come with me. Talk to Her yourself, and you will see.”
”You know, I always wondered why they chose you for this post.” Yaj Yath motioned for Dyuh Mon to come to him. “Come quietly. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
“I can’t,” Dyuh Mon said, shaking his head. “I can’t go back before the Council, not after what I’ve learned. You cannot force me.”
“Come test your mettle then, but I will hand you over to the Council, no matter what you do.” He raised his hands, a green tentacle springing forth from his sleeves, the flesh shiny and moist.
Dyuh Mon shouted a word, invoking a spell he’d prepared. All the magelights went dark, the only light coming from the open door into the Hall of Mirrors. Dyuh Mon lifted himself into the air, hoping Yaj Yath would not think of an attack from above, but a tentacle wrapped around Dyuh Mon’s ankle jerking him down, hammering him against a wall. Yaj Yath chuckled in the darkness.
Dyuh Mon muttered a spell, his hands forming concentration symbols he’d learned from Davina, spells Yaj Yath would not have heard of before. He threw his hands out, and a spray of ice shards exploded from his hands as the temperature in the room dropped.
Yaj Yath screamed, but the tentacles tightened around Dyuh Mon, one squirming up his torso, wrapping around Dyuh Mon’s throat, the other immobilizing Dyuh Mon’s right hand, making spellcasting impossible. The tentacles lifted Dyuh Mon into the air.
