Through the haze he noticed the beginning of the spell. For a fleeting moment he wondered who might be working it, and why. There had been much experimentation done with Firewalking in recent weeks – Bastion needed its own spell, and needed it quickly.
His interest waned even as the next phase began, but he found himself reaching out with his senses anyways, studying what his fellows were up to. The spell was different from the original Firewalking spells he had studied, but not greatly so. It was more vigorous. An exceptionally skilled magician must have been behind it.
Then the Far Door appeared, visible to Darius through the window, and shouts of alarm sounded from below. The pillar of fire that burned away the night for a brief moment had brought its fiery mark down within the circle of the Crown itself.
Darius straightened as alarm banished the doldrums from his head. Certainly something had gone wrong – some foolish wizard had miss-targeted or miscast his spell.
Then the alarm drained away, replaced by a moment of cold fear. The Far Door that burned nearby seemed to be at the exact location of Balkan's home.
Darius sprang away from the window, tearing out of the small, bare room he stood in. As he ran, he barely took note of what his eyes saw; bouncing off walls and stumbling down stairways as he frantically made his way out of the tower. His senses were fixated entirely upon the spell. Because he was studying it so intently, he knew immediately when the magician at the other end stepped through the portal.
Only it was no magician.
It was a Demon. Inside Bastion.
The palpable wrongness that always accompanied the Great Enemy flooded outwards, making Darius's skin crawl with revulsion. His fear had vanished, and even the presence of the Demon did not bring it back. This was no experiment gone wrong – it was an attack on Bastion. An attack on Balkan!
There was no room in his mind for anything but wrath.
As he descended a winding staircase in blind, bounding steps, he reached out and attacked the monster by sight of magic alone. With all his fury behind it, the blow would have leveled any sorcerer the Enemy had ever produced. The Demon barely took note of it. Even as Darius burst from the main entrance of the tower, pushing past a handful of startled men and wizards, he noted a shift of the spell. The attackers were already stepping back through, returning to wherever they had come from. With a howl, Darius attacked the portal itself, determined to deny escape to these brazen intruders.
The vortex of magic had reversed its course, drawing all energy through. Darius found his spell and senses – and with them, his mind – drawn into that maelstrom, and through.
What lay between the two points of the gate was burning terror. It was a realm of madness.
It was Hell.
Still Darius did not fear. Hell itself held no terror for him in his state. He felt malevolent entities take note of him, was aware of them in strange ways. He could feel their lustful hunger as they stretched out their will to rake him with pain, desiring only to drink in his suffering.
Where any other man would have quailed, Darius fought, and he poured all his hatred and ire into hurting these things that would dare attack his friend.
They recoiled from him, and he felt the surprise pour off them. Never before had they encountered a being with the will to attack them in their own home. As he continued his assaults, they convulsed. They gibbered in fear and anger – but their anger seemed a petty, shallow thing to Darius now. He would show them its true measure. He raged, and in that place his hate had the power to destroy. He reached out to one of the things, intending to consume it just as it had desired to consume him.
Their focus had changed, though. Instead of attacking, they merely pushed – pushed at Darius, forcing him out and away and back where he had come from. He did not belong there, and could not fight it. He struggled to find a way to dig in, root his will in this strange place so he could continue to war and rage for all eternity – but he did not know how. They ignored his attacks and pushed him, pushed him...
Then he was back in the world, seeing with his own eyes instead of bare force of will. He raised his head from where he lay in the dirt, having fallen prostrate when his mind left his body for the briefest of instants – and he saw flame. Balkan's house was now a skeletal wreck at the center of a roaring conflagration. The roof crackled and caved in, sending an enormous plume of sparks into the night sky.
A strangled moan clawed its way from his throat. His rage had fled. Only anguish filled him now. Staring eyes reflected the flames as his tortured cries grew ever-louder, challenging the roar of the fire.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sunrise brought no joy to the city of Bastion, especially not in the hearts of the men sifting through the still-warm ash and stone of what had recently been a wizard's home.
Arric stood, watching. Soot on his hands and robe showed that he had spent time amidst the ruin. The fire had been quelled moments after it started, but it had burned with Hellish delight, devouring wood and deforming the white stone – piles of which were being shifted off the wreckage as teams of wizards searched for any clue to what had caused – and allowed – this tragedy.
Lazarus stood beside the Council Leader, his normally-ageless face sagging with grief, showing the many long years of the old wizard's life. Neither man spoke. The only words in the several hours of the search had been Arric's as he organized the work. Since then, all had been silent, the enormity of the tragedy stealing all voices.
One of the searchers straightened abruptly, his robes sending up billows of gray ash. "Arric!" he shouted, running towards his leader with something in his hands. "I found something!"
It was an orb, cracked in several places – far removed from the flawless crystal sphere it had once been. Instead of the normal translucence, it was cloudy and blackened within.
Arric lifted it gently from the wizard's hands – despite his caution, his finger caught on one of the chipped edges of the heavily pitted surface. It was razor sharp. Arric absently wiped the blood onto his robe. He tried probing at the ruined object – and though he could sense strange echoes of something from within it, he could not begin to unravel this mystery. He looked up and gave instructions to the wizard who had made the discovery.
"Find me a Shaper – the first you can locate. I don't care what he is doing, bring him here immediately.”
Perhaps one of those few wizards who could create the globes could grant some insight into what had destroyed this one.
There was a crowd gathering – re-gathering, in truth. Directly after the attack, many people had watched the fires be put out, all asking questions that nobody could answer. Shortly after, many mothers took their children and fled, going to stay with relatives in more remote – but apparently much safer – parts of the city.
Arric's spirit sunk even lower as he was forced to consider exactly what – and who – had been lost over the night.
Lazarus looked over his shoulder, and showed a similar reaction. Turning back to Arric with head hung low, he asked, "Where is Darius?"
Arric sighed. "Unconscious. We had to drug him. He was... not in his right mind."
It was a haunting understatement. When Arric had arrived to the scene, four men had been barely managing to prevent Darius from running into the fire. He fought them with fists and magic both, all the while uttering torturous wails such as Arric had never heard from the throats of men, Angels, or Demons. The surreal sight had been unsettling in the extreme.
"We must call the council immediately."
Arric nodded. "Of course. Would you see to it, Lazarus? I must await the Shaper."
As the elder wizard went to spread the word, Arric turned to the blackened object in his hands, wanting it to activate so that someone – anyone – could speak and tell him what to do. At the Council he would be expected to lead, but he had not the slightest inkling of the way forward.
"The Enemy has found a way to attack the city," Arric said. His voice was remarkably ste
ady for such an unthinkable statement. There was no surprise at his announcement. The rumor by now would have reached the outer walls of the city. It was almost noon.
"It is almost certain that Wizard Balkan, and his family, were taken or killed."
This, Arric could not speak so placidly, and none could fault him for the tremor in his voice. All hung their heads in grief. To lose a wizard in battle was a cause for mourning. For a wizard and his family to be lost in such a way – there was no human emotion that could begin to encompass the loss. Within the city, with the Angels always so near, death rarely claimed any but the elderly – whom even Angels could not save.
"The method is still unknown," Arric continued at last. "But as we all felt, it involves Firewalking. As such, I am immediately canceling all experimentation with the spell. Any such spell must now be considered an enemy attack, and should be treated accordingly by any of us in reach."
There were murmurs of agreement from around the room – though some wizards, mostly those deepest in the researches just curtailed, looked displeased.
Arric had decided not to announce the ruined globe they had found. The Shaper he had spoken to, one Wizard Ramsey, had been able to give them one very important fact – the globe had not been created in Bastion. Ramsey had taken it for further study.
A commotion had started at one side of the room. Several wizards were whispering heatedly amongst themselves, gesturing towards the Council table.
"Gentlemen!" Arric said, gaining their attention. "Bring it before the Council, please."
One stepped forward. "Is it true that there was a Demon in Bastion?"
Arric nodded, causing the man's face to fall still deeper in dismay. "It is true. Many of us here can - "
He was not allowed to finish. The doors to the Council Chamber were shoved violently open – and the wizards felt a trace of magic behind the blow.
In walked Darius.
The change – or restoration – that had come over the man was striking. Gone was the shuffling gait – he moved now with all the alacrity he ever had. Gone was the slouched presence – he stood straight and tall. His face, however, was lined heavily, his hair disheveled. The spark that had once burned in his eyes had grown into an all-consuming firestorm.
He looked like a man on whom sanity had few holds left.
Arric stood, as did the rest of the High Council.
"What is to be done?" Darius croaked. His voice was hoarse and thin, almost nonexistent.
Arric could already tell that this would not go well. Losing Balkan had pushed Darius to a place he may never return from.
“We were just discussing that. We have -”
"I can guess what you were discussing," Darius rasped. Even with his ruined voice, contempt managed to drip from every syllable. "What is to be done? Not precautions. Actions."
"We cannot lash out at them for revenge, Darius," Arric said, quietly.
“Call it what you will, Arric. Revenge? Why not justice? We can, we must have it, by any name. If there has ever been a moment, any single moment that shows us a change must be made, it was -”
His eyes snapped shut as his words faltered. His hands clenched into trembling fists. Not a word was spoken while he regained himself – none dared speak.
"It was last night," Darius finished eventually. His eyes opened again. "And every one of you knows it. We cannot go on as we have before. Something. Must. Change."
"What, Darius?" Arric beseeched with arms spread in helplessness. "What would you have us do?"
There was a long, tense silence. Darius opened and closed his mouth several times.
“Anything.”
Darius locked gazes with Arric, but what he saw there revolted him – Pity.
Arric broke eye contact, lowering his head. "Darius, please. You are not well. You should rest."
There was another pause. Darius studied the faces around him, though few would meet his glare. His lips curled into a snarl and he fled from the room, not seeing two men break from the crowd lining the walls and follow.
They caught up with him a few steps down the corridor. At an insistent call, Darius turned. Behind him were the Wizard Ethion and another man whose name he did not know.
"Wait, Darius!" Ethion repeated wit his hand on the man's shoulder.
"What? Has Arric sent you to coddle me?" Darius spat.
"Balkan was my friend too. And Pendrick's," Ethion said. "You're not alone in grieving him."
"Or his family," the man who'd been named Pendrick said. "Maggie introduced me to my wife."
Now that Darius bothered to take note, he could see that Ethion's face was lined much like his own, and both men had the red eyes and puffed cheeks of recent weeping. Pendrick, especially, seemed as if he had more tears to let fall.
Still Darius did not soften, though his tone was no longer combative. "Wonderful then. We can grieve together," Darius said, showing what he thought of the idea's usefulness.
"You mistake me, Darius. We think you're right. Something really must be done – we must ensure this never happens again." Ethion finished his plea, looking to Pendrick for support.
The man's expression had grown dark, and acquired a hint of the terrible anger that filled Darius. "They can attack Bastion. They can attack our families. No price is too great to protect them."
"We will return to the Council, Darius, but know that we two, at least, are with you," Ethion said. He gave Pendrick a glance, and the younger man started back to the council chamber.
Ethion lowered his voice. "Arric was not wrong. You should rest. If there is anyone who can think of how to repay the Enemy, it is you. And when you have, we will see it done."
Without waiting for a reply, Ethion followed Pendrick back to the council.
***
There was a remarkable carving on Arric's desk. It was the Fortress Nebeth upon its plateau, with turrets, walls, and battlements rendered in rich mahogany. Arric traced its contours idly with one finger while Callos spoke.
"There were four wizards not present at the Council," Callos said. He was leaning forward in his seat, the fingers of his left hand drumming a steady rhythm upon the desk. "We know the whereabouts of three."
"And the fourth?"
“Geralt.”
Arric did not answer for a few moments. The other men knew as well as he that Geralt had been one of those under suspicion as Pyre's spy.
"Take two others and search his room. I would not want to announce it unless I have proof. You're sure he is not within the city?"
"He did not answer the Council summons and he cannot be found in the Crown. Will you have me search the whole city?"
From his seat beside Callos, Lazarus spoke. "He seldom left the Crown."
Arric nodded. With his crippled leg, Geralt had disliked long walks and tended to stay within the tower itself, much less stray outside the Crown walls.
"Search his room," Arric repeated. "Thoroughly."
When Callos had gone, Arric looked to Lazarus.
"If Geralt was the spy..." Arric began, but could not think of the words to finish his sentiment.
"If he was, then we are fortunate," Lazarus said.
Arric looked at him in disbelief. "How can you say that?"
"Because he is gone, Arric. His method of departure was beyond tragic, but there are things we can learn. If Geralt was the spy, then the Enemy would not have withdrawn him from the city lightly. That means his assistance was necessary for the spell – and it seems likely that the destroyed globe we found was as well. Which means that they cannot do it again, unless they have another spy and another smuggled globe."
"They did it once, why not again?' Arric asked.
"Think, Arric. Do not allow their recent successes to convince you the Enemy cannot be successfully opposed. On that path lies madness. If it were so easy for the Enemy to make traitors of us, we would have lost the War long ago."
Lazarus leaned his head upon one hand. "The question that I would most
like answered is, why was Balkan so important that they would spend this traitor to take him? What do they hope to gain?"
Arric's eyes fell to his desk as he thought. With a start, they returned. "Weapons," he said. "Balkan's last report on his researches was that he may have found a way to construct magical weapons – and they could be used by anyone, even normal soldiers."
His eyebrows furrowed, Lazarus asked, "Why didn't the rest of the High Council know of this?"
"He said he was still far from producing something useful in battle. With all that has been happening, I decided it could wait."
Lazarus was nodding as he thought. "To deny us this – perhaps even gain it for themselves? Yes, that may well be worth the loss of their spy."
"Balkan would never help the Enemy."
Lazarus looked at Arric from beneath bushy white eyebrows. In his eyes, sorrow lived as termites live within a tree.
"They took his family, too. Do you think that was an accident?"
Arric's slumped in his chair, and did not reply.
They sat in silence for awhile, acknowledging the helplessness that both men felt. Though neither man had been close with Balkan, their lost colleague – and his family - had represented something important to the community of wizards – a sign that they were not so far removed from their fellow man, after all.
At long last Lazarus spoke again. "We need to find out more about Balkan's recent research."
"He had acolytes helping him with the runes. They should know something," Arric said, and heaved a sigh. "Darius may know more, but I am not sure I would want to bring up anything concerning Balkan to the man."
"You may be right," Lazarus said. "It can wait, for a time, but eventually..."
"He will recover. He must," Arric said.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Darius looked about and realized that he had wandered far. The last time he had taken note of his surroundings he had been outside, near the walls of the Crown, where the grass yet grew green in defiance of the approaching winter. Now he was not only inside, but underground, amongst the foundations of the Tower.
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