Path of Shadows

by Ben Wolf

Kent felt the stone in his hand dwindling to nothing—and fast—as his magic ate away at its essence. He needed to replace it soon, or he’d need to take another course of action.

  By contrast, magic and fire each other, so fire attacks could last longer, depending on the skill of the mage wielding it. Falna hadn’t let up on her attack since she’d started, and the fire continued to burn through Kent’s shield.

  As a Crimson Flame cultist, she’d mastered the use of fire, and perhaps only fire, over years of practice. Who knew how long she could sustain it?

  Kent feared she would persist longer than the stone in his hand would last. It had diminished to little more than a pebble, and he started searching his pouches for another stone.

  Then a flaming sword severed the top of his shield and slowly carved a molten line through its center, cleaving it in half. Falna was coming through.

  But rock was still rock, whether molten or not.

  Kent dug another stone from a pouch with his other hand and started to seal the molten rock at the top of the shield together with his magic. Meanwhile, the pebble in his right hand disintegrated into dust, and he let it trickle from his hand.

  Falna persisted, still trying to cut through the shield with her fiery sword. It seared the cobblestones faster than Kent could rejoin them. Then she burst through with a fresh blast of fire that shattered the shield and sent pieces of flaming stone skittering along the street.

  Kent was ready for her. As she stepped through the barrier, he slammed his right fist into her jaw—the same fist that had been too badly burned to be effective in their last confrontation.

  She went down hard, and her sword clattered against the cobblestones and extinguished, as did the fire in her other hand. The sword’s blade darkened from the glowing yellow of molten steel to a deep red hue.

  Normally, Kent wouldn’t have struck a woman, especially with such decisive force, but Falna was exceptional in every way. And the sooner Kent put a stop to her attacks, the sooner they could get out of there.

  But as Falna hit the ground, Garrick stepped into the fray between them, facing Kent with his phantom steel weapons high and ready.

  “You’re defending her now?” Kent stared up at him.

  “I’m defending myself,” Garrick replied.

  “She’s down. We’ve won. You don’t have to do this anymore.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Garrick started toward him. “You know I don’t have a choice.”

  So Kent drew his sword as well.

  Amid swirling rocks, fireballs, and the cries of nearby villagers, Aeron and Wafer battled the majority of the soldiers on their own.

  Lord Valdis’s men had gravitated toward the biggest target, and Aeron had no qualms about engaging several of them at once. Atop Wafer, it was easy and, at times, even fun. They flowed together as one, fluidly attacking and defending against the soldiers’ blows.

  But when Garrick joined the fracas as well, it threw Aeron and Wafer off their rhythm. They could’ve fought Lord Valdis’s soldiers forever, but dealing with a rampaging, berserking Garrick as well complicated everything.

  Mehta had chased after the four soldiers who’d headed deeper into the village in search of Kallie. Aeron trusted Mehta would stop them before they found her. Whether Mehta did or not, with Garrick in the mix, Aeron didn’t really have a choice anymore.

  At least, until Garrick abandoned the fight only a few minutes after he’d initially joined. He veered away, toward Kent and Falna’s fiery exchange, and left the soldiers to deal with Aeron and Wafer—or, more likely, the other way around.

  Time for a party, Aeron sent to Wafer through their bond.

  Party party, Wafer sent back.

  Aeron grinned.

  Riding a wyvern into battle wasn’t the same as riding an animal from Point A to Point B. Rather, Aeron was riding a living weapon, one capable of devastating his enemies. And thanks to their bond, that’s exactly what they did.

  They swooped down toward the soldiers and snatched up one of them in Wafer’s talons. The added weight slowed Wafer’s ascent, but for what Aeron had in mind, height didn’t matter so much.

  The soldier hollered from below as Wafer flew over a home constructed of thick pine logs and released him. The soldier’s armored body clanked hard against the side of the building and then dropped to the ground.

  Flying around and attacking from Wafer’s back with his spear worked nicely as well. Aeron had already managed to skewer two of the soldiers fatally. His spear’s beastly, tri-tipped blade had pierced through their armor with ease.

  Best of all, riding Wafer put hardly any strain on Aeron’s back. He still longed for a shroom to counteract what pain he did feel, but thus far, it hadn’t hindered him from fighting.

  Wafer took out a fourth soldier with his teeth. Wyvern jaws could shatter some types of boulders, so crushing iron armor and the bones within was no problem.

  A fifth soldier perished thanks to Wafer grabbing onto him, climbing in elevation, and then dropping him straight down to the cobblestones below. He now lay where he’d landed, his limbs and torso twisted and contorted in ways the human body wasn’t supposed to move.

  The remaining soldiers had scattered and fled into the village.

  It had all been going well until Garrick entered into battle against Kent.

  Falna was down but had started to stir again. She clutched her jaw, rose to her feet, and shook her head as if trying to restore her cognition.

  Meanwhile, Garrick and Kent traded blows in a tumultuous battle of magic versus muscle. With one hand, Kent manipulated cobblestones to pummel Garrick, and with the other, he wielded his sword, parrying and deflecting Garrick’s ferocious hacks and swings.

  But Garrick no longer wielded the snow steel sword and shield he’d had back at Lord Valdis’s castle. Instead, he carried a huge battle-axe and a matching flail, both of them made of black steel.

  As Garrick swung his weapons, Aeron noticed a dark, almost imperceptible aura trailing each swing. Aeron didn’t know what kind of weapons they were, but by the look of them, they weren’t born of sunshine and happiness.

  Using his magic, Kent hurled rock after rock at Garrick, but Garrick had descended into his berserker mode yet again, wildly spinning and twisting and lashing his weapons. Sometimes the rocks pummeled him and barely fazed him, and other times he batted them out of the air like insects.

  Kent was holding his own, but just barely. Garrick moved faster than Aeron had ever seen, even faster than when he’d dueled with Mehta at Valdis Keep.

  Meanwhile, Falna had wandered off into the village—to the west, toward Mehta’s house—with her flaming sword in hand. She was looking for Kallie, and only Aeron could stop her.

  But if Aeron didn’t intervene, Garrick would overwhelm Kent soon. No matter what Kent did, no matter how he maneuvered the rocks and parried wild blows with his sword, he couldn’t fend off Garrick’s persistent attacks.

  Falna hadn’t found Kallie yet, so Aeron commanded Wafer, and they rushed over to help Kent.

  Garrick had made serious headway. Kent’s magic attacks had failed to inflict any real harm, and Garrick had managed to stay on the offensive the whole time.

  He often lost himself when he started berserking, but this time it was different. He was more focused than ever, more durable, more vicious.

  It had to be Lord Valdis’s weapons. When he’d entered the fight, he’d only intended to keep Kent from finishing off Falna. He wasn’t sure why he’d intervened in the first place—Garrick hadn’t even wanted to do it, but with the weapons in his hands, he’d stepped in anyway.

  Once Kent had started to engage him, rage took over Garrick’s body, and he launched into the battle with as much intensity as he’d ever fought anyone or anything. He moved faster, attacked harder, and repelled everything Kent threw at him—magic or otherwise.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Garrick knew he didn’t need to kill Kent—nor did he even want to—b
ut he pressed forward, determined and relentless. It felt as if the weapons were exerting a measure of control over Garrick rather than the other way around.

  Garrick wanted to see blood. He wanted to shatter Kent’s bones and crush his skull. He wanted to wipe Kent’s very memory from the continent, and he wanted to take Kent’s essence and use it to further empower himself.

  It no longer mattered that they had been allies—friends, even. All that mattered was winning and claiming Kent’s power for himself.

  He batted Kent’s sword away with the battle-axe and followed up with a swing with his flail that could’ve literally taken Kent’s head off, but Kent snuck under the blow just in time. A man-sized pillar of cobblestones erupted from the street, but before it could solidify, Garrick kicked it over, refusing to slow his assault.

  Kent lunged at him with his sword, a mask of desperation on his face. Some part of Garrick realized he’d never really seen true desperation from Kent; he was always cool and collected, but now he looked exactly the opposite: frantic and distraught.

  Garrick sidestepped the sword’s blade and whipped the flail at it. The chain coiled around the blade, and the flail’s head anchored against the chain, locking in place.

  Lucky. But Garrick didn’t complain. Instead, he yanked the flail back and wrenched Kent’s sword from his grasp.

  Unarmed, exhausted from Garrick’s pace, and with only his magic to save him, Kent raised his hands, now glowing with blue light, and pointed them at Garrick.

  Then a mountain collided with Garrick from the side and sent him tumbling end over end until his body crashed against a building made of pine and stone. It hurt, but the pain felt distant, as if he’d only dreamed it.

  He stood immediately and saw Aeron and Wafer hovering in the very spot where he’d just been standing. It hadn’t been a mountain that hit him. It was that stinking wyvern.

  The flail lay a few feet ahead of his position, between them and him. He still held the battle-axe, but the impact must’ve torn the flail from his hand. He bolted toward it.

  As he did, a flash of orange light caught his attention to his left. He scooped up the flail and glanced at the source of the light.

  It was Falna. She’d blasted through the door of one of the houses and now stood outside, pumping it full of flames. From inside, he heard the shrieks and cries of the house’s occupants.

  The sight shocked him. He’d fought countless men and even several women over the years. He’d killed many of them, but he hadn’t outright attacked civilians since his raiding days as a young man in the islands north of Etrijan.

  To see Falna torching a home with innocent people inside altered something within Garrick’s core. Even as his phantom steel weapons relished the destruction and urged him to join in it, Garrick questioned if this was what Lord Valdis expected of him.

  Is this what I’m becoming as well? Is this really my future?

  Falna’s behavior reminded Garrick of his father, a drunk who’d ruled over his family with terror and strength. No one else’s voice mattered. No one else’s lives mattered. He’d been a tyrant for all of Garrick’s young life—until the day Garrick did something about it.

  Falna was also a tyrant.

  Garrick looked back at Aeron, who still rode Wafer. They’d landed, and they stared at Garrick alongside Kent, who’d since recovered from Garrick’s onslaught.

  Garrick stared down at the weapons in his hands. They’d controlled him during this battle more than he’d controlled them. They continued to poison his thoughts, to persuade him to add to the carnage and harvest the essence of anyone who resisted.

  The weapons represented Lord Valdis, and their power flowed from his. They were another way for Lord Valdis to control him.

  Despite what Garrick had wanted to believe, despite all the lies he’d told himself to the contrary, he knew Kent had been right: Lord Valdis was unquestionably evil. Garrick could no longer rationalize it away, couldn’t justify his survival because of his fear anymore.

  Lord Valdis was a tyrant, too, and Garrick didn’t tolerate tyrants.

  But he could do something about it, starting today. Starting right now.

  Even though they screamed at him not to let go, Garrick dropped the phantom steel weapons and stormed toward Falna and the burning house.

  Chapter Seven

  Mehta had caught and quietly sifted two of the four soldiers who’d filtered into the village in search of Kallie. Now he stalked the third, who’d failed to break into the front door of a house and had circled around to the back door instead.

  A memory flickered to life in Mehta’s mind. Loud voices had yelled and shouted as his front door rattled and quaked. As a small boy, he’d hidden under a wooden table. It was the day Lord Valdis’s soldiers had invaded the town and killed his parents.

  He’d locked that accursed memory away for nearly two decades, but upon seeing the soldier kicking and pounding at that back door, it all resurfaced.

  And it filled Mehta with rage.

  With only one of his knives out and ready, Mehta rounded the house after the soldier. When he cleared the corner, silver flashed toward him.

  Mehta barely avoided getting cleaved in half by the very soldier he’d been pursuing. He’d shifted his footing and his positioning just enough to dodge the sword chopping down at him.

  It was a chilling reminder that emotion and impulse could get a Xyonate—or an ex-Xyonate—killed.

  As he moved to retaliate, Mehta saw the soldier looking past him, at something behind him.

  It was an ambush.

  Instead of following through with an attack and risking getting impaled or cut down from behind, Mehta redirected his momentum toward the side of the house. He took a few quick steps, jumped high, and ran up the wall.

  When gravity got the better of him, he leaped off with one final push of his right foot, grabbed the edge of the house’s roof with his free hand, and pulled his legs up to avoid swipes and slashes from the soldiers below.

  Sure enough, another sword clanged against the side of the house where he’d just scrambled up the wall. The two soldiers gawked up at him, holding their swords at the ready, but unmoving.

  Mehta couldn’t stay there. He pressed his feet against the side of the house again and pushed off the wall as he let go of the roof. He soared over them in a backflip and landed before the two soldiers.

  Rather than getting pinned with his back against the wall, he’d managed to pin them there instead. He could’ve fled into the pine forest at his back, but if he did, he’d never hear the end of it from his thirst.

  So he stood his ground and drew his other knife.

  The first soldier executed a controlled swing of his sword—not too wide or unwieldy. He’d had good training and exercised good discipline thus far, but in a few seconds, none of that would matter anymore.

  Mehta went low—far lower than the soldier could’ve reasonably expected—and slid under the blow. As he did, he hooked his arm around the soldier’s right ankle and took it with him, behind the soldier’s back.

  The soldier pitched forward, off-balance, as Mehta popped up to his feet, still lifting the soldier’s leg. Then he plunged his knife into the back of the soldier’s knee.

  The soldier cried out, and Mehta released his leg and yanked his knife out in time to deal with the second soldier, already in mid-swing.

  Mehta rarely deflected blows with his knives. Given their length, they weren’t effective for much of anything defensive, but in this case, he didn’t have enough time to do anything else. The second soldier’s attack had come too quickly.

  He raised his knives both at the same time, with their blades pointing down out of the bottoms of his fists, and followed the sword’s arc with his eyes. It clanged against the edges of his knives, and he redirected it away.

  His Xyonate training had taught him to advance in such circumstances. Many combatants would take the moment of impasse as an opportunity to rest when instead, they ough
t to press forward and take their opponent off-guard. The concept had served Mehta well countless times in the past, so he employed it again here.

  As he’d expected, the second soldier backed up to recalibrate after the deflection of his sword. So Mehta sprung forward, past the first soldier who still lay on the ground, clutching at his wounded leg.

  The second soldier frantically raised his sword to defend himself, but it was already too late. Mehta had caught him flat-footed.

  He batted the soldier’s sword down with the knife in his left hand and stabbed at his eye with the other knife. The soldier’s left hand shot up to block the blow—an impressive feat—and Mehta’s knife plunged into his palm instead.

  The soldier’s armored knuckles smacked against his own face, and Mehta’s knife failed to reach the soldier’s eye after all.

  The soldier grunted as blood oozed from his wounded hand, and for the first time in ages, Mehta actually took in the appearance of the person he was sifting.

  He had blue eyes, similar to Kent’s, and dark stubble covered his chin and jaw. He was a young man, probably about Mehta’s age, but much lighter-skinned.

  Mehta tried not to consider any of those factors, but now he couldn’t get the soldier’s face out of his mind. And now that he’d humanized the soldier, Mehta’s default desire to sift him dwindled.

  The soldier started to raise his sword again, but Mehta’s knife other reached the soldier’s throat first. Neither of them moved for a long moment.

  Mehta’s thirst screamed for blood, desperate for it. But it always wanted blood, and he’d found that sometimes—often, in fact—it was better not to give it what it wanted.

  Instead, Mehta said to him, “Leave now, take your friend, and never come back to this village.”

  It wasn’t a request or a plea. Soldiers—and Xyonates, for that matter—responded to commands, and Mehta had no reason to be anything but crystal clear with his demands.

  The soldier nodded slowly and deliberately.

  Mehta pushed off of him and took several steps back, still holding his knives in case the soldier tried anything.