by Chris Fox
Kazon was out of the fight, for now at least. That left the Wing Father, a centuries old Wyrm trained by elders who still remembered the end of the godswar.
Why wasn’t Rolf ending this? Aran glanced at the Wyrm, who was still exchanging spells with the true mage. That should be impossible. Aran had never seen anyone who could stand up to Rolf, certainly no normal human. So what the depths was inside of that armor?
His gaze flicked back to the war mage. Blood flowed freely from the wound in his gut, but that would take hours to finish him. He needed to do something more lethal, and he needed to do it quickly.
“Come on, boy. I can see you considering it. How do you attack me? You know I’m faster, and stronger. You know I’ve got more powerful spells.” The war mage grinned cruelly. “Take your time. I’ll wait…over here, you know, by your friend’s corpse.”
Something that lived in the darkest, most violent end of rage burst through Aran.
“No!” Cobb croaked, clawing her way a half-meter closer. Aran had no idea how she was still clinging to life, and couldn’t force himself to look directly at his mentor’s ruined face. “Y-you have the command, Aranthar. You…have to be…more.”
Cobb was right. This was bigger than him, and he had a responsibility. He was an Outrider. Aran ignored the war mage, instead sprinting toward Kazon. He leapt into the air, extending his hand toward the thickest part of the tentacles. Hot, angry flame boiled out of him, down his arm, and through his palm. The creature writhed and shrieked, releasing one of Kazon’s arms.
Aran landed next to Kazon’s hammer, seizing it in his free hand. He strained, but the weapon refused to budge. A quick glance over this shoulder showed the war mage taking advantage, not to attack, but to use a healing potion on his own wound. He’d be coming for them next.
Aran summoned more air magic, almost the last of it, and wrapped seven tendrils around the hammer. He heaved, using his own strength combined with air. The hammer reluctantly left the carpet, and Aran hurled it toward Kazon with a roar.
Kazon’s free hand shot out and seized the hammer, wielding it like a toy. He slammed the weapon down on the tentacle holding his other arm, and it released him with a squeal. Kazon smiled, then wrapped his other hand around the hammer.
“You got this?” Aran yelled.
“Yeah, I’ll be free in a second.” Kazon roared back.
Aran spun to face the war mage, and it was a good thing. The man had crept up silently, like a jungle cat, and now stood a few meters away.
“You sure you don’t want a minute to go cry over your mentor’s corpse there, boy?” The man’s grin widened.
“You just tried that trick, remember?” Aran returned coldly, though a torrent of rage boiled through him. “Can you do anything other than talk?”
The war mage’s smile eroded and he nodded respectfully at Aran. “Fine. You want to be treated like an equal? That’s fair.” Two more versions of the war mage stepped out from him, then two more. There were five now, only one real. The crowd of illusions began to approach, and Aran backpedalled slowly. Was there any way to know which one was real?
For the first time he regretted all those times he’d skipped out on counterspell lessons. Normally Cobb took care of this sort of thing, and Aran realized just how vulnerable relying on her had made him.
The crowd of illusions pressed closer, almost within attack range. They all held their weapons aloft in Banto style, just like the apprentice had used. Aran’s only hope lay in guessing the real attack, but there simply wasn’t any way to do that.
The entire room began to shake, and the crowd of war mages hesitated.
Aran risked a glance at the battle between Rolf and the true mage, and his eyes widened when he realized what he was seeing. A swirling ball of black energy had gathered in the air near the true mage, and was slowly beginning to expand.
“He’s casting a Fissure. Run!” Aran yelled.
Kazon sprinted out the restaurant door. Aran looked back at the war mage for a single instant, meeting the bastard’s gaze. Then he followed Kazon.
5
Arachnidrake
Rolf added the last sigil to his disintegrate spell and the corners of his mouth creased upward as it zipped toward the smug Summoner. Everything until now had been a preamble, the opening steps to a dance. Now it began in earnest.
The disintegrate shot flew unerringly toward the Summoner’s face. It warped the very air around it, dissolving bonds in every molecule it touched. Unlike the lesser spells he’d used thus far the disintegrate was fifth level, and thus could not be counterspelled. Only dodged.
The Summoner raised a hand, sketching three quick sigils. A sound like the universe being born tore through the room as a crack opened in front of him. Inside lay the yawning darkness of the Umbral Depths, a place that terrified Wyrms even older than Rolf. His disintegrate passed through the Fissure, disappearing into the inky darkness.
“Is there anything else you would like to try?” the armored figure asked mildly. Rolf studied him carefully, straining in vain to pierce whatever protection the armor offered. Unlike his human Outriders, Rolf could perceive hundreds of spectrums at once. At least one should have allowed him to see within that armor, yet they did not.
“What are you?” Rolf demanded.
“You can’t really expect me to answer that.” The voice sounded amused. “Come, youngling. Try yourself against me. I’ve heard such great things about the mighty Rolf, most feared Wyrm in his flight. Thus far? I am not impressed, little Wyrm.”
“Little?” Rolf growled. His eyes narrowed. “I am four centuries old. I have slain a demigod. Perhaps you are resistant to my spells, but you will not escape my claws so easily.”
“I’d wondered how long it would take you to resort to physical means. You are still young. Impetuous. If you were wise, you’d have fled the moment your disintegrate spell passed through my Fissure.” The Summoner waved his hand at the Fissure, and it began to widen. “If you’d like to do battle in your native form, then I will provide you an appropriate playmate with which to do so.”
“You are going to summon something that can challenge a fully grown Wyrm?” Now it was Rolf’s turn to be amused. “There are only a handful of Wyrms in the sector who could best me.”
“That hubris will cost you your life today.” The Summoner walked slowly away from the widening Fissure, which had already ripped through both the floor and ceiling. “You assume that you’ve seen much of this galaxy, and that this sector represents a significant part of it. You are wrong. What you call this sector is a tiny slice of one plane of existence. Today, you meet a being from a greater plane.”
Something flashed within the darkness, growing closer to the Fissure. Wind began to howl as furniture, dishes, and even the bodies of the dead were sucked toward the Fissure. It was an open hole into a vacuum, and would eventually destroy the entire station if not stopped.
Rolf extended two fingers, and sketched the most powerful counterspell he knew. He flung it at the Fissure, willing the magic to unravel. His counterspell slammed into the spell…and had no visible effect.
“I remember your great grandmother’s hatching,” the Summoner began, smugly. “I remember the death of gods so terrifying that Krox was a toddler to them. You are nothing, little Wyrm. Die knowing your own insignificance.”
Scales glistened in darkness, growing closer every second. But not just scales. Something hellish smoldered there as well. Eyes, he realized. He counted swiftly, his heart sinking when he realized there were eight.
“An arachnidrake. Those are merely legend,” he protested aloud, though in his heart he knew he was wrong. They weren’t a legend, and he was about to learn the awful truth.
Rolf began to transform and his wings slammed into the already damaged ceiling. He briefly wondered if the destruction would kill his Outriders, but their loss was a small price to pay if it ensured his own survival. Humans measured their lives in centuries. He would live forever
, if he survived the day.
The building buckled and Rolf burst from it, now in full Wyrm form. He swept his tail around in a brutal smash, which crushed the ceiling and sent the rest of the building tumbling into the rapidly expanding Fissure.
Something climbed through that Fissure, a creature with vaguely recognizable draconic features, but alarming differences. It had scales, and its wings were very similar to Rolf’s. But the similarities ended there. Eight jointed legs dangled from a bulbous body, and an equal number of eyes stared from a face that would haunt Rolf until the last star went cold.
Its fangs quivered, moving of their own accord as the creature flew closer. As it exited the Fissure, Rolf realized it was easily twice as large as him.
A voice boomed up from the ruins of the building below, and Rolf spotted the Summoner, standing calmly amidst the wreckage. “Your kind are not the largest of dragon kind, not by half. Meet your species’ predecessor, little Wyrm, and tremble.”
Rolf didn’t wait for the creature to close. He opened his maw and belched a bolt of the purest blue-white. The lightning instantly closed the distance between them, boring into the monster’s thorax. The creature shrieked, then answered by vomiting a torrent of pale white threads. They spiraled outward like living things, grasping and clawing their way inevitably toward Rolf.
He flapped upward desperately, winging away from the strands as they sought to encircle him. He slashed at them with his tail, but the strands nimbly evaded, then wrapped firmly around his tail. The arachnidrake yanked him closer, quickly closing the distance.
Huge jointed legs stretched outward, threatening to encircle him. Rolf sketched a disintegrate and flung it at the creature’s face. “Let’s see how you handle a real spell, eldritch thing.”
The creature eyed the bolt curiously but made no move to evade. Rolf felt casting from below, and glanced down just in time to see the Summoner complete his spell. A Fissure opened before the creature’s face, swallowing the disintegrate.
“You didn’t think I’d leave victory to chance, did you?” the Summoner asked, his amusement even more evident. “As I said, hubris.”
The arachnidrake’s legs wrapped around Rolf, crushing him to the creature’s underbelly. Its tail stabbed down, a barbed stinger puncturing his thick hide. Warmth spread through his side as the tail pumped poison into the wound.
Rolf thrashed weakly. There was no surviving this. But he would not go quietly. Rolf sketched another disintegrate spell, and this time the Summoner couldn’t stop it. The creature’s own body prevented the Summoner from seeing the spell even being cast.
The disintegrate slammed into the arachnidrake’s side, and Rolf knew a single moment of elation. It shifted rapidly to despair. The bolt unraveled part of the thorax, and three of the legs. But the creature lived. Somehow, it had survived a fifth level spell. What was this thing?
“Goodbye, little Wyrm. Die knowing that no one will remember you, or the secret you sought to pillage today.” The Summoner flared brightly, then winked out of existence.
Rolf looked up into the many eyes of his killer, just before the arachnidrake’s fangs flashed down at his throat.
6
GTFO
Aran burst from the restaurant, skidding as he scanned for Kazon. The bearded man had already made it twenty meters up the street, weaving through traffic as he sprinted toward the cargo bay. Probably a result of magical enhancement, especially given how strong Kazon appeared to be.
“Where are you going?” Aran roared as he sprinted after the bearded man.
“You’ve got a ship, right?” Kazon called back without slowing. He vaulted a sizzling grill, and the drifter tending it cursed a long unintelligible string at his retreating form.
“Yeah, I’ve got a—.” Aran trailed off as a Fissure tore through the building they’d been standing in. It opened directly into the Umbral Depths. Carts, refuse, and even people were already being pulled toward it.
Aran leaned into his sprint and poured on the speed. “Let’s get the depths out of here. Go, go!”
They wove through the crowd, people making way to avoid Aran’s naked spellblade. Most were transfixed by the growing Fissure behind them. A death sentence, but not one that Aran had time to prevent. Cobb had often reinforced that he couldn’t save everyone.
“Are you a tech mage?” Aran drew in a quick breaths, finally drawing even with Kazon.
“No, but I’ve got quite a few magic items,” the bearded man offered.
“Anything that can open a Fissure?” The adrenaline had faded, but Aran caught his second wind when he caught sight of his fighter on the far side of the customs area.
Several bored officials glanced up at them with wide eyes, and one stepped forward with a raised hand. “Halt—.”
“No.” Kazon said, decking the poor man. The blow flung him to the ground, but didn’t do more than rattle him.
“Your station is literally being torn in half. Evacuate. Now,” Aran demanded. Then he turned and sprinted for his fighter.
He sketched a dream sigil the instant he reached it, leaping up the stairs before they’d even finished descending. Aran vaulted inside and dove into the command matrix. By the time Kazon dropped into the fighter, he’d already buckled his harness and begun activating the spelldrive.
“Buckle up in the co-pilot’s seat. Do you have anything that will let you fire a spell through the secondary cannon?” Aran tapped in the final initialize sequence, and the craft tugged at his dwindling reserve of magic. He’d be dry for at least a full day after a scrap like this, but if he lived long enough to do that it would be worth it.
“Even better.” Kazon removed a glowing purple vial from his pocket and tossed it to Aran.
He caught it deftly, holding it up for examination. Little black motes swam within. “It will open a Fissure. If we can get to the planet’s Umbral Shadow then we can escape into the Umbral Depths.”
“How will we get out again? I don’t love the idea of being stranded in a place that has never seen light.” Aran connected to the ship, willing the spelldrive to life. The craft began to lift and they glided toward the shimmering blue shield separating the cargo bay from space.
“I have a second vial. Just get us there.” Kazon snapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat as they penetrated the envelope and left the station. The fighter picked up speed and the station slowly receded behind them as they flew toward the massive red gas giant below. “I thought dragons were powerful. Looks to me like your draconic friend can’t stop that Summoner.”
“You’d better hope he can,” Aran shot back angrily. “Rolf is the only thing keeping that guy from killing you, remember?”
“Killing us. You know about the Heart of Nefarius too, remember?” Kazon glared over his shoulder at Aran, but he focused on flying.
“Speaking of the Heart, I need to inform Virkon. They have to know about this. Cobb already died for it.” Aran was about to tap the fire sigil that would establish communication when an impossibly bright flash came from behind the ship.
The station detonated in their wake, and even the explosion was sucked into the Fissure. Then the Fissure itself began to collapse, unable to survive in the light of a full star. Like the depths themselves, Fissures required darkness.
Aran tapped a fire sigil, but chose a different divination spell. He scryed on the area around the Fissure, bringing the image up on the scry-screen covering the top of the cockpit.
“What in the depths is that?” Kazon demanded, his voice rising an entire octave.
“I’m more concerned with where its going,” Aran whispered. The creature flew unerringly in their direction. It resembled a dragon, if you only looked at the wings and tail. But the rest of the body was hideous. Doubly so, because that body had suffered immense damage.
The creature’s segmented legs unfolded and Aran went cold. Rolf’s headless body floated from its grasp, drifting silently through the void.
“My gods. Rolf is dead.
This thing killed a Wyrm.” Aran forced himself into motion. He had the command. He poured more fire magic into the spelldrive and the vessel accelerated until it began to shake.
“Uh, it’s coming after us.” Kazon pointed up at the scry-screen.
“I can see that.” Aran tried to ignore Kazon, thinking furiously. There had to be a way to get away from this thing, but he didn’t have the faintest idea what that might be. Whatever that thing was, it was faster than his fighter, even at full speed.
“It’s going to catch us before we get to the umbral shadow.” If anything, Kazon’s voice had risen even higher. It was jarring coming from a man that large.
“Yeah, I can see that too. Do me a favor?” Aran angled the nose of the fighter toward the gas giant’s northern hemisphere.
“What?” Kazon asked, twisting around to face him. His eyes were wild.
“Take off your shirt. See that red tube over there? Stuff your shirt into the tube, and lock it shut, okay?” Aran focused on flying, praying to Virkonna that Kazon could follow simple instructions.
“Why do—? You know what? Sure, whatever you say.” Kazon unbuckled himself and crawled over to the ejection tube. He pulled his shirt off, exposing slab after slab of layered muscle. Kazon’s physique was incredible, superhumanly so. He’d clearly been magically enhanced. Multiple times. “Can I ask why I’m throwing away a full eldimagus? This has been in my family for centuries. Even if we survive this, my mother will kill me.”
“Don’t worry, this is almost certainly going to fail,” Aran admitted. The fighter had finally reached the planet’s gravity well and Aran expertly rode it. Their speed increased dramatically as the planet slung them. He dropped the fighter closer, until they were skimming off the upper atmosphere.
“Won’t the friction slow us down?” Kazon demanded as he crawled back into the co-pilot’s command matrix.
“Yup.” Aran said. His attention was fixed on the scry-screen. “But if that thing wants to chase us its going to have to skim off the atmosphere too.”
