Ermolt shifted his stance and whirled his weapon around the best he could. The hammer knocked against the head of the halberd, making it jump into the air. He let go of his weapon at the top of his swing, and the momentum carried both weapons careening through the air. The halberd-wielding mercenary recovered quickly and brought her weapon back down, but Ermolt grabbed the haft just below the head of the weapon with one hand, and the bottom of the axe head with the other.
She tried to jerk her weapon free, but the haft didn’t have a proper grip beyond a smooth leather wrapping. The barbarian yanked it from the woman’s grip with ease. He brought the end of the stolen weapon up, smashing it into the mercenary’s helmet. The ringing blow dazed the woman enough that Ermolt was able to bring the weapon around again. This time the pommel landed hard on the mercenary’s shoulder, driving her to one knee.
Ermolt spun the weapon, the ends cracking and scraping against the cramped walls.
Athala touched Elise’s ear, making the Conscript wince in pain and dragging her attention back to the delicate matter under the wizard’s unsure fingers. Sieghard saw Athala’s discomfort and stepped up to attend to the Conscript’s wounds instead. He produced a small bundle of first aid supplies, including a needle and thread.
“Your flesh is split and your ear hangs on by almost nothing at all,” Sieghard said as he pushed Athala out of the way. “I will need to reattach it and sew the wound as best as I can.”
Elise nodded. The movement caused her ear to slide across her cheek and Elise’s stomach heaved. “Do it,” she said in a weak voice. They had no potions of numbing or healing to help with the pain. Or the fallout. Elise knew she would need to keep an eye on the wound unless she wanted it to become infected.
“Athala,” she said, drawing the wizard’s attention away from Sieghard’s hands. “Ermolt is outnumbered. He needs help.” She pointed towards the fight with a shaking hand.
In truth, she was pretty sure Ermolt could handle the two foes at once, but Athala’s dark cheeks were starting to blanch a little at the gore that was likely the side of Elise’s head. Helping Ermolt would stop the wizard from fixating on the curtain of blood that covered Elise’s face and neck.
Athala took two steps forward and shouted the draconian words of another bolt of fire.
Elise became lost to the pain after that.
Sieghard worked to sew up the cut that was much longer than Elise expected. It began halfway through her ear, which was painful enough on its own. But the cut ended along her hairline, just above her temple. The older wizard’s hands were deft and he didn’t linger in one place for too long, but Elise was still unable to focus on anything else.
She hoped her friends were doing well. That they won this fight, and quickly. But mostly she just wished that Sieghard would finish up.
The wizard stepped back and returned to blot Elise’s face with a bit of cloth. The wound was tacky with blood, and without fresh water they wouldn’t be able to properly clean it. But the avalanche of blood pouring down her vision had stopped, and Sieghard seemed less concerned. “It needs proper attention,” he said with a frown, before he began wrapping her head in a clean white cloth from his kit. “But for now it should be fine. You will likely open the wound if you fight.”
“I can’t let my friends down,” Elise said with a sullen tone. She struggled to her feet. “There is just too much to do.”
Ahead, Ermolt had felled the once-halberd-wielding mercenary. It looked like it was with her own weapon, from the gore splattered across the room. The last mercenary on her feet was staggered back, fending Ermolt off with feeble swipes of her sword.
He stepped in for the killing blow when Athala cried out.
It took Elise a moment to realize what was the matter.
Something had changed in the air. Elise felt a ripple of cold in her heart and the dim lighting in the room seemed to brighten, as if a haze had been hanging in the air and was abruptly sucked out.
“No. No, no, no,” Elise said quietly. “We can’t be too late. We should still have time!”
“Go. We need to get moving,” Sieghard said as he grabbed his medical supplies and hid them once more among his robes. “We don’t have time to finish this.”
On cue, Athala snapped out a spell and the last mercenary flopped bonelessly to the ground, stunned.
“Down the stairs! Go!” Elise shouted. She started to run, but instead she staggered from both the blow and the blood loss she’d suffered.
Luckily, Ermolt was more than willing to take the lead. He scooped up his thrown hammer and rushed down the stairs with his weapon in one hand and the stolen halberd in the other.
Athala followed close behind, while Elise and Sieghard took up the rear.
Elise prayed wordlessly that they weren’t too late.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The stairway was a straight-shot down, but it seemed to go on forever.
Ermolt imagined it would have been dangerous to run down the steps at full sprint, three at a time, a moment ago. But now the gloom that had filled the Temple was gone, and he could see clearly enough to keep his footing as he ran.
It was one of those odd blessings that he wasn’t really sure he should be thankful for. Ermolt liked his neck and legs unbroken, but the absolute fear in Elise’s voice had scared him a lot more than he was willing to admit.
He really hoped they weren’t too late.
And he really hoped he wasn’t alerting the entirety of Ibeyar’s forces to his presence, because he made a terrible racket as he charged.
The stone tiles of his armor clinked and clanked with every crashing thump of his boot on the stairs. The design of the stairway meant that every noise echoed a thousand times before dissipating.
Even Ermolt’s hammer joined in on the noise, its head ringing against the wall as he ran. The halberd was quiet, tucked in close to his person. He was prepared to put his body weight behind the tip of the weapon if a threat appeared beneath him as he descended.
And yet the stairs kept going.
Ermolt had anticipated bursting into a basement soon after beginning down the stairs. When a long moment had passed of him running at full speed down them with no end, he envisioned some sort of dungeon instead. And after another long moment, he began to expect something more like the sanctum they had seen in Khule, where Meodryt had been kept.
He knew his companions were falling behind him as he raced at top speed down the stairs, but Ermolt couldn’t slow down. If all he could do was burst in and hurl a weapon at Ibeyar at a crucial moment, he would waste no time getting there.
Though, given what they experienced in Jalova, the dimness of the Temple fading meant that they were probably too late.
But he could still hope.
The bottom of the stairs finally came into sight, and a moment later, a heavy wooden door.
Ermolt didn’t slow down. He shifted the halberd out of the way so that he could slam bodily into the door with his shoulder. He crashed against the door with a foundation-shaking boom.
Despite the force he descended with, the solid oak refused to give.
But the lighter wooden frame it was set into wasn’t so hardy.
With a splintering cry, the weaker wood gave way to his charge.
Ermolt’s momentum was slowed as he hit the door. It fell away from him and clattered along the floor. Before he could even assess the room, he dropped his hammer and raised the halberd with both hands.
The displaced door finally stilled near a heap of corpses. They wore the armor and tabards of the Conscripts, though the body at the top was a man in robes instead of armor.
While Ermolt had never seen this particular person before, it could have only been the High Priest, judging from the ornateness of his robes and rumpled headpiece.
Dead. All dead. And in such an undignified way.
So much for the protection and loyalty of the Gods.
Ermolt turned his attention to the rest of the room as a chi
ll settled in over his skin.
There were four more of the fully-armored mercenaries in the room. They looked like twins of the women he’d fought in the room above, only three of them seemed to be masculine. He couldn’t be sure. It was hard to tell with so much plate mail on.
Behind these four mercenaries were a dozen figures in dark red robes, and while they were unarmored, they each held quarterstaves. Ermolt had barely registered their presence before deciding they were dangerous. Each person held their staff in a way that screamed experience.
Many fighters in Neuges treated the quarterstaff as a weapon to be held like a sword—with both hands kept together, one on top of the other. But, as a graduate of Celnaer Hold, Ermolt knew there was only power in that stance. It would tire you out faster, and give you less control of the weapon.
These figures held their staves with their arms a little less than a shoulders width apart from each other. It meant the weapon moved smoothly from side to side, and gave them the full range of power and accuracy. They could easily move their hands closer together or farther apart to control the weapon. Or even switch easily to a one-handed sweep like Ermolt was fond of.
It was smart. Exactly what Ermolt would do, and exactly how he would fight.
Seeing someone else do it was a little nerve wracking.
The group moved into a defensive position, and Ermolt found himself mirroring it with his stolen halberd. He had no intentions of fighting this group alone. Without his friends to help him, he would lose. Easily. But it was still a thing he did, as if on cue.
Behind the dozen dangerous quarterstaves was a stone dais that rose up from the center of the room like a blemish. There were three tiers of stone steps leading up to the center, and while Ermolt’s experience had led him to expect an imprisoned dragon trapped there, the space was empty.
Mostly empty.
Ibeyar stood at the top of upper-most tier of steps. His arms were crossed over his chest.
And he was smirking.
A chill burst down Ermolt’s spine, calling to mind the harsh winter breezes of Klav.
Ermolt hated Ibeyar. Hated that smirk. Hated the superiority that always seemed to shine in his dark eyes.
Without hesitation, Ermolt launched his halberd at the Prophet.
It leapt from his hands cleanly with but a single step forward. Ermolt was actually impressed with himself, especially considering he was in a defensive stance not a breath before. The halberd arched through the air, above the ranks of what Ermolt assumed were Priests, and Ibeyar’s mercenaries.
Directly on target.
Ibeyar raised a hand during the missile’s flight. No words were spoken. But just before the halberd struck him, it jolted and stopped as though it hit a solid wall.
The weapon clattered to the ground, rolling away.
Ibeyar crossed his arms again.
And smirked.
Ermolt felt the heat of embarrassment burn away his rage and he busied himself by recovering his hammer.
He thought about hurling it as well. It would have been really, really satisfying. But he knew Ibeyar was using magic to protect himself, and Ermolt’s frustration wouldn’t overcome magic any day.
Disarming himself completely against this large of a group seemed unwise as well.
Elise would be proud. He was thinking critically even when riding the edge of rage.
“I’d like to say I’m surprised to see you,” Ibeyar said in a tone that screamed of false boredom. “But, honestly, it’s my fault for expecting such dross as the Jirdan City Guards to follow a simple order.” He shook his head and walked two steps to the left, then paused, turned, and retraced them.
Pacing. He was pacing.
But not just pacing—this was the pacing a feline did over its prey. A prowl that claimed in simple motions that he wasn’t concerned about his trapped rat’s teeth. He knew who would be dinner to whom.
“I should have cast my personal vendetta against you aside and had them kill you then and there. It seemed worthwhile at the time to wait, to make you suffer. But now?” Ibeyar clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and stopped, facing Ermolt once more. He held a hand up in the air and examined the backs of his fingers as if there was something different about them that Ermolt couldn’t see. “Now it all seems so petty. So weak. So... human.” He clicked his tongue once more and laughed. “I don’t suppose it’s too much to ask that they managed to keep hold of Elise? Or capture Athala?”
As if beckoned by name, Athala stumbled down the last few stairs. The wizard was breathing heavily, but she immediately raised her hands and flicked back her sleeves to the elbow. She was ready to hurl some magic, and Ermolt didn’t blame her eagerness.
Elise followed the wizard close. It was obvious her head wound was giving her some trouble as she seemed dizzy and disoriented, but she took up her place to Ermolt’s right, protecting his flank. Just like always.
Sieghard was nowhere to be seen, but from what Ermolt had witnessed earlier, that didn’t mean the older wizard wasn’t standing directly next to him. He’d just have to believe that Athala’s friend had his back, and hadn’t hightailed it back home yet.
“Of course not.” Ibeyar sounded disappointed, but his body language told a different story. He was calm and collected, and that smirk didn’t leave his face. “Not that it matters now. Whatever those fools did to slow you down was just enough.” He paused, the smirk slowly turning into a grin. “Or, maybe... it was you, yourselves? Yes, yes, I see. You needed to be ready to fight a dragon, didn’t you? Of course you couldn’t have rushed—”
“How long as he been talking for?” Elise asked quietly without turning to look at Ermolt.
“Since I got down here,” Ermolt responded under his breath, not turning to face her either. “I tried throwing that halberd at him but it just bounced off.”
“Where’s the dragon?” Athala chimed in. “Have you seen it?”
“Not at all. Would he have had time to stash it somewhere?”
“I don’t really think you can just make a dragon vanish—”
“Are you three even listening to me?”
Ermolt looked up to Ibeyar with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to be honest—not at all.”
“Tch. It doesn’t matter. I’ve won. Nothing you can do at this point matters, and so fine. Talk among yourselves.” He shook his head, obviously disappointed. “There’s a part of me that wants to crush you three under my thumb. But another part of me wants you to be forced to live in this new world—my new world. To show you what I can do with this power.”
“What power?” Athala asked, but Ibeyar ignored her.
“There’s this quiet little voice that wants you dead at my feet.” He looked down at them and his eyes narrowed. Ibeyar shrugged, but it was too nonchalant. He obviously still wanted them dead, no matter what he said. “But with each passing moment these parts get smaller and smaller. None of this matters. I’m above them. I’m above you. You can choose your fate yourselves for all I care.” Ibeyar paused, tilting his head to one side. “Yes, yes that sounds right. You choose. This is your one chance.
“Flee. Flee and you may still live to see what I become.” His smirk returned and it was a slimy thing that made Ermolt’s skin crawl. “You might even be one of the revered who can say they were here at the beginning.”
“Never!” Ermolt shouted.
“What, are you still beholden to Ydia? She who betrays? She who lies?”
“Absolutely not,” Elise said in a firm tone. Ermolt turned to look at the Conscript in surprise. “This isn’t about your fool plans, or ours, or Ydia’s! This isn’t even about justice anymore!” She pointed her sword at him, her threat clear. “This is about revenge. Us. Giving you what you deserve. A violent death. Here and now. For all your corruption and crime. For all your lies. For the torture and murder and the betrayal.
“For Merylle!”
Ermolt let loose and loud, long, wordless roar of challenge and he an
d Elise both sprinted forward into the thick of battle.
For a brief moment, as a dozen quarterstaves were raised against him, Ermolt wondered if they had chosen wrong. If it would have just been smarter to leave.
But it was too late now.
This ended here.
The snow fell.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
With each footstep, Ermolt’s vision became clouded by the frosts of Klav. It was if every resounding stomp of his boot called more frozen precipitation down from the mountains just to drive his rage.
The snow and cold fueled him, pressing him forward into the oncoming battle.
Something was different this time, though.
Where he would normally be overwhelmed by the avalanche—lost to the tumbling flakes and seared by the blistering cold—his mind was unnaturally clear. The snow that fell was almost a lip service to his former rage, and the cold that pressed him forward was more a gust than a gale.
It was concerning.
There were a dozen possible reasons for it, and none were ideal. As with before, Dasis could have trouble reaching him on the southern tip of the southern kingdoms. Or his fear of this being his final battle could be overwhelming his rage. Perhaps whatever Ibeyar did or had become was blocking Ermolt’s connection to his God. Maybe even Dasis was abandoning him, drawing away because of his alignment with Ydia and whatever her plans entailed for the Age of Mortals.
But Ermolt had no time to fret, and no energy to devote to wringing his hands.
Even without whatever power Ibeyar now wielded, there were more than enough forces arrayed against Ermolt and his friends.
If he held anything back, it could mean death.
Ermolt drew his hammer back as he ran forward, calling out with another battle cry.
The quarterstaff-wielding Priests formed a defensive line in front of the mercenaries and Ibeyar.
None of their weapons shimmered with divine magic. There was no glow or shadow or whatever followers of Numara would have. They were average people, wielding weapons in an above-average way.
Destiny (Heroes by Necessity Book 3) Page 24
