by J. C. Staudt
Darion remembered that section of the yard. The last time he’d set foot there, Rylar had been the one he was fighting against—and the one who would’ve brought him to an end, were it not for Alynor. He might’ve reminisced with his old friend, only it was time he returned the favor Alynor had done him all those years ago. “Will you be alright?”
Rylar nodded and clasped Darion’s hand. He gave it a squeeze, and Darion could feel the strength in him.
“Hold fast, my king. I shall return.” Darion signaled Draithon to follow.
They passed the toppled curtain wall and the ruined gatehouse. A Dathiri soldier leveled his spear and charged Darion from the left, but Draithon put a translucent yellow spike through his forehead. When three crossbowmen aimed down from the battlement above, Draithon spread his fingers and spun out a circle of glowing blue runes. The bolts vanished through it as if through a hole in the air.
“I’ve never seen that one before,” said Darion.
Draithon drew a second circle of runes with his other hand as a pair of Dathiri swordsmen tramped across the yard toward them. The three bolts shot from the circle and dropped them as they ran.
Darion glanced over his shoulder at Draithon. “I’ve definitely never seen that one before.”
Father and son worked their way across the yard, fighting off Dathiri soldiers, joining forces with druids in the form of massive beasts and towering insects, and aiding fur-cloaked Korengadi battle mages against the Warpriests pounding them with nature’s wrath. Darion was astonished to see how many of Draithon’s spells were new to him, and how many of them operated by twisting the magic and weaponry of others back on themselves. When Draithon delivered a second spell into Bloodcaller’s hilt, the sword erupted in pure red flame.
“It’s the same fire used to forge the red sphere,” Draithon called.
Darion knew it too. He’d seen the sphere’s creation when he looked inside, though not the face of its creator. “What does it do?” he shouted back. “I never cast the other parts of Geddle’s ritual.”
“Use it. You’ll see.”
Darion swung at a Dathiri soldier, who lifted his shield in defense. The fire cut an unobstructed black swath through the man, shield and all, as if to tear open the world itself. Where the sword’s path might’ve rent wood, flesh, and bone, there was only black. The soldier fell apart and crumpled to the ground in a bloodless heap, the severed portions of his body and weapons cloven to someplace beyond reckoning.
“I’ve unmade him,” Darion breathed.
“Enough of him to make a difference to the rest of him, at least,” Draithon confirmed.
“How do you know that spell?”
“You aren’t the only one who’s gazed into the spheres.”
They fought on, Darion’s distaste for the red fire and its deleterious properties growing with every swing. Though Draithon’s curing spell had alleviated the hunger and exhaustion of his imprisonment, he found himself feeling every bit his age as he pushed his creaking bones and sore muscles to their limits. It was a relief when Draithon cast a spell which sent half a dozen ghostly figures charging across the yard to meet a group of soldiers in combat. The frightened soldiers promptly broke and fled.
Darion and Draithon rounded the corner to find Alynor and the girls backing toward the castle’s rear curtain wall while Blinch advanced on them. Alynor was showering him with spells, glowing purple heartseekers and streaking white stars and poisonous green darts. The half-giant battled through them, forced to cast defensively instead of with murderous intent. The spells which did strike him didn’t seem to have much effect.
The red flames on Darion’s blade were dying. “Give me the spell again,” he urged. “The unmaking fire.”
“Are you certain?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Draithon hesitated. “Never mind.” He touched Bloodcaller’s hilt with a readied spell, and the blade burst into red flame once more.
“Right. Now once I have his attention, go and fetch your mother and sisters. Get them to safety. I’ll face this dark servant on my own.”
“As you say, Father.”
Darion moved forward, sword at the ready. “You there,” he called, pointing an accusatory finger at Blinch. “Come and meet a match suitable for someone of your ilk.”
Blinch turned his tattooed head. “What’s this? The old gray spellsword I’ve heard about? Do you truly believe yourself capable of besting me? To the glory of Dalahmet, I shall revel in proving your boasts empty.”
Darion brought Bloodcaller to bear. “We’ll see who’s empty when this is done.”
As Blinch came toward him, Draithon circled around beneath the gallery windows. Two fang-like swords sprang to life in the big man’s hands as he hurtled across the yard in long bounding strides, covering the distance in seconds. Hold, Darion told himself. Hold until you can feel his breath on the breeze.
Bloodcaller burned in the rain.
Blinch charged in and swung out.
Darion blocked the first swing, astonished when the red flame did not cleave the half-giant’s ethereal sword in two. He evaded the second blow, knocked away the third, and brought Bloodcaller round in a wide, low cut. Blinch was ready, and parried the swing with his off-hand blade. The two traded blows for a time; Darion circled round to put Blinch’s back to Alynor and the children, whom Draithon was leading along the wall beneath the gallery.
“Your magics are weak,” Blinch roared. “Against the Lord of Dusk there can be no victory. Dalahmet’s power thrives within my very soul.”
The red flame began to dwindle. Darion hadn’t yet landed a single blow against Blinch’s twirling duo. He needed a diversion; something to break his foe’s concentration. He doubted Alynor would risk flinging a spell into their midst. Draithon might, though. The boy was just reckless enough to try it.
Alynor and the children scurried up the stairs to the high hall. When she found the door locked, she broke the latch with a spell and ushered the children inside. Draithon pushed her in and closed the door before casting a spell and descending to the yard once more.
That’s it, son. A moment is all I need.
Draithon sent a knot of razor-sharp tendrils toward Blinch, writhing and twisting with violet light. Blinch spun and swatted them away an instant before they would’ve lodged in his back. Darion saw his opening. The last of the flames died on Bloodcaller’s blade as he made a lunging thrust toward Blinch’s open flank.
Blinch managed a glancing parry with his off-hand blade, but it wasn’t enough, and Bloodcaller pierced the soft flesh between thigh and abdomen. Darion felt the steel graze Blinch’s pelvis before it came out the other side. When he withdrew the blade, it was dark with blood the color of ink. Blinch faltered on his feet, side-back-forward, like a drunk performing a dance step. He fell to a seat on the soft ground. Then, to Darion’s horror, he began to change.
His skin turned to scales, the tattooed stripes on his head sliding into zigzag patterns down his back. His arms turned upward, growing eyes and snouts. All of him grew larger; his legs fused together and slithered into a tail behind him. His body thickened until the clothes stretched and broke away to reveal a burnished ochre sheen patterned with russet-colored diamonds.
Darion stumbled backward as the three-headed serpent of Dalahmet lifted itself to tower above him, rising to more than half the height of the keep. The center head spread its jaws to hiss, flaring its hood and unveiling row after row of spiny teeth and a slender forked tongue behind two ethereal yellow fangs. Darion had slain dragons and wyverns and even hydras, but never before had he battled the giant multi-headed embodiment of a dark god. First time for everything, he thought, backing through the mud with Bloodcaller at the ready.
Draithon was scrambling up the steps toward the door when the Blinch-snake’s left head fixated on him. The tongue flicked, and the head lashed out. Draithon shrieked when the fangs closed around his midriff. He managed to shove a spell through its jaws as it
picked him up. The snake released him and reared back as a crush of stone erupted from its mouth like breadcrumbs. Draithon fell, crashing to the yard.
Darion must’ve screamed then. He must’ve charged, though he didn’t remember doing either. Next he knew, Bloodcaller was sunken to the hilt in the snake’s gullet. The beast twitched; a coil came round to batter Darion off his feet and knock him into the mud five fathoms away.
He looked up, woozy, to see the upper door fly open. Alynor stood on the threshold with a Dathiri spear in hand. When the left head struck again, the spearpoint sprouted from the back of its neck. It turned with a jolt and began flailing with abandon.
Alynor rushed down the stairs toward her son while the left head writhed and hissed. Darion called out to warn her, but the snake’s center head was already locked on. Alynor didn’t seem to care, so consumed was she with reaching Draithon. She tossed a smattering of bright crackling flares into the snake’s face, sending it into a swaying wide-eyed stupor. She flung herself down beside Draithon and lifted his tunic to reveal the two bloody holes left by the snake’s bite. She began to cast.
Darion pushed himself to his feet and winced at a misaligned joint in his knee. Limping to the snake’s torso, he gave Bloodcaller’s hilt a yank. He slipped and fell backward as the sword pulled free in a stringy brown mess. The right head leaned down, but Darion managed a wild swing to nick the beast’s snout and hold it at bay for a few precious seconds.
That was when Ryssa appeared in the doorway above. The snake’s center head was recovering from Alynor’s stunning spell, and its eyes fixated on the little girl in a flash. With the object of Blinch’s fervor now standing before him, he lowered his head and struck. What he did not account for were the renewed magical abilities of a young girl who’d been harboring a great deal of anger over being taken from her family and tricked into believing she hadn’t.
Ryssa held out her hands. There was a spell between them.
When the snake’s largest head came near, flame gushed from Ryssa’s palms. Darion covered his face against the heat. Scales sizzled and popped; rain steamed toward the heavens. Fire spewed over crackling eyes and a shriveling forked tongue until the entire center head was charred black as pitch.
All three heads screamed in dissonant agony. Darion hadn’t known snakes could scream; perhaps only snakes formed from the bodies of dark druids possessed that unique talent. When the undamaged right head dove toward him, he knew it was the end.
Only it stopped with its open jaws inches from his face. There were feathers fluttering from its earhole and a familiar broadhead tip jutting from its neck. A single drop of oily liquid perspired from its fang to burn on Darion’s cheek.
The snake’s body began to twist and coil around itself, muscles clenched tight. It shrank and changed until it was Blinch again, a half-giant who appeared decidedly smaller than before standing naked and spent in the rain. When he opened his mouth, an arrowhead sprang from his throat as if he’d coughed it up himself. He fell into the mud without struggle or fanfare. Darion looked past where he’d been standing, to the wall walk and the intact corner tower beyond. A man stood outlined against the gray clouds, his dark cloak aflutter in the stormwinds. He turned to dash down the tower steps, emerging a moment later from the lower door and hurrying toward them.
“Never knew Ryssa had it in her,” said Triolyn Dorr, the Lightning Hand. “Thought I’d have to kill the whole bloody thing myself.” He pulled Darion to his feet.
“That thing claimed it was an avatar of Dalahmet. I’ve never seen a god manifest itself like that before. It was immune to half the spells we threw at it.”
“You don’t need magic to kill a thing like that. All you need is a sharp stick and a good place to stick it. A well-crafted broadhead doesn’t hurt neither.”
Darion rushed over to where Draithon lay cradled in Alynor’s arms.
“We’re too late,” she said.
Triolyn approached them with a casual demeanor. “Rubbish. The boy’s fine.”
Alynor cut him an icy stare. “He’s been bitten by a giant snake.”
“He’s got a madstone. Didn’t he show you?”
“No. What’s a madstone?”
Triolyn rolled his eyes. “You people. No respect for folklore.”
“Draithon found it on our hunting trip,” Darion explained. “But the legend of the madstone is only that—a legend.”
“I don’t believe this,” Triolyn muttered. “Right, then. Wait and see. The poison can’t touch him. Bind his wounds; that’s all you need worry about. He’ll be up and walking before you know it.”
Alynor was unconvinced. But as she studied Triolyn, her expression changed to one of curious wonderment. “How did you get here?”
“Turns out walking through a fold in the mage-song feels like getting your head shoved up your own arse.”
“You went to see the hill magi at Skelside Castle,” said Darion. “Gods… they did get you here right in time, didn’t they?”
Triolyn scoffed. “I got me here right in time. Thanks to those bloody spheres, the closest they could put me was nigh on thirty leagues from here. Couldn’t have gentled me down like a goosefeather in the fair green fields of the Eastgap neither. Oh, no. They dropped me in the buggering Maergath Marshes. I paraded my sweating arse through swamps, rivers, and deserts to get here. Leeches got more of my blood now than I do, I reckon.”
“Regardless, we are glad you arrived when you did. What of the Dathiri fleet in Atolai?”
“They made landfall and overran the city. While they slept, I feathered every ship in the harbor with black tar arrows. With the inlet burned, they’d no means to harry the rest of the island. The mage-song came back, and they went to pieces quick as you please. After that I journeyed to see the hillfolk you made mention of. They do know how to move a person about, though they could stand to improve their accuracy.”
“Everyone’s accuracy could stand improvement compared to yours.”
Triolyn thumbed his bow. “All in a life’s work. Where’s Kestrel? Cowering inside with the women and babes, I’ll wager?”
Darion and Alynor exchanged a look. “There’s a lot to catch you up on. Much has occurred in your absence.”
“Right. I’ve a few stories of my own. And look, there’s our boy now.”
The stormclouds parted, and Draithon Ulther opened his eyes.
Chapter 35
Over the remainder of the day, the sphere-storms diminished until only a cold mist was falling from the gray winter sky. When the last of Dathrond’s soldiers had surrendered their arms, Darion gathered them, together with Olyvard’s household and servants and the remaining elf-kind and Korengadi, in Castle Maergath’s high hall. Alynor was still concerned with Draithon’s wounds, but it appeared Triolyn had been right—no poison had taken hold within her son.
“I speak on behalf of Tarber King of Orothwain,” Darion began when all were gathered.
“And I on behalf of Halbrid of Ralthia,” said Triolyn the Lightning Hand.
“For myself I speak,” said Rylar King of Korengad.
“And I, for the woodland principalities of Dathrond and the kingdoms of elf-kind throughout the realms,” announced Gaelyn, Mistress of Seasons and Archdruidess of Eventide.
“Olyvard King of Dathrond has on this day perished,” Darion continued. “He leaves behind a queen, but no direct heir.”
Queen Esvalda Tilusia of Therberos, Olyvard’s widow, fidgeted with her skirts.
“Octaryl, first cousin of Olyvard, is now the rightful ruler of Dathrond. However, his assumption of the throne shall not come to pass. As representatives of our respective kingdoms, we’ve reached an accord to be enacted with the utmost immediacy. First, Dathrond’s armies are hereby disbanded. All foreign conscripts pressed into service under Dathrond’s banner these many years shall be free to return to their homes without charge, to resume duty under their liege lords without fear of reproach. Second, Dathrond’s priests and Warprie
sts, having practiced the art of nature’s lore under Olyvard’s guidance to the detriment of the realms, are hereby sentenced to death without trial. Third, the crown’s many lands and incomes are to revert to the ownership of their local lords toward the formation of independent splinter kingdoms within Dathrond’s former territory of rule.”
A collective gasp came from the crowd.
“Fourth, Queen Esvalda Tilusia shall be free to return to her native Therberos, to live out the remainder of her days in banishment from the realms. Fifth and finally, rulership over the new independent Kingdom of Maergath, including its keep, castle, and lands, is to be granted to Castellan Master Jaiccus Carthag in reward for his lifetime of service, to be passed down through the generations of his family forever and ever.”
Carthag blinked in astonishment. He cleared his throat but didn’t speak. Tears came to his eyes, and he had to turn away.
When the king’s advisors, commanders, and high-ranking officials had been carried off to the dungeons to await trial, Olyvard’s few remaining Warpriests were granted final words in the castle yard before their beheadings. Gaelyn’s druids and Rylar’s battle mages took turns doing the honors. Draithon asked after a priest called Norne, but when Rylar’s men went to fetch him from the inner ward, the Warpriest was gone without trace.
That night Darion brought Gaelyn, Rylar, Carthag, Triolyn, Alynor, and their three children to the former quarters of Olyvard’s conjurer, Geddle the Wise. Geddle’s old writings remained among the tomes and scrolls lining the shelves and bookcases of the rooms which currently served as scriptorium and study for the king’s Warpriests. A wealth of information, Alynor knew. One her eldest son would no doubt take a keen interest in.
Draithon could scarcely walk with his wounds from the snake’s fangs, but he’d made it here with assistance from the castle servants. Now the boy sat in an empty chair and stared in wonder at the stacks of spells and histories around him. He remained entranced as Darion and the others combed through every book and parchment for traces of the three remaining portions of Geddle’s ritual. By the time they were done, they’d made a pile of the offending texts at the center of the room.
