by Ben Wolf
He threw the occasional red spear or arrow Mehta’s way, each of which Mehta avoided, but for the most part, they battled mere inches from each other. And Mehta still couldn’t land even a single blow on him.
“How does a Xyonate come to target me, exactly?” Lord Valdis asked between attacks. “Who commissioned you to do so?”
“No one.” Mehta held his knives up, ready for whatever Lord Valdis might throw at him next.
“It was not a final commission from your high cleric, Ghazal?”
Mehta squinted at him. How does he know that name? “No.”
“Then you took it upon yourself to ‘sift’ me, as your people say?”
Clangs and grunts sounded around them as Kent, Aeron, and Garrick continued to engage the blood clones.
“Yes.”
“So it wasn’t your grandfather’s idea?” Lord Valdis’s mouth curled into a sinister grin.
Mehta’s heart shuddered in his chest, and his thirst demanded vengeance even for the mention of his grandfather.
“Or your sister?” Lord Valdis prodded. “Or… what is the girl’s name?”
Mehta held his tongue, and every muscle in his arms, legs, and chest tensed.
He can’t know. He’s guessing. There’s no way he could know.
“Ferne, wasn’t it?” Lord Valdis finished. “It’ll be a shame what happens to her when I’m done with you three.”
Mehta’s thirst screeched in his mind, ordering him to loose the entirety of his fury on Lord Valdis, to hurl himself forward with abandon, regardless of the consequences. It took all of Mehta’s focus to remain composed.
“Don’t worry,” Lord Valdis taunted. “I’m sure she’ll make nearly as talented of a Xyonate as you’ve proven to be.”
Mehta’s composure snapped, and he yielded to the thirst.
He launched forward in a series of attacks, fast as lightning and just as unforgiving. His knives moved in a whirlwind of fury, hacking, slashing, stabbing.
None of it fazed Lord Valdis. He deflected every blow with clean alacrity, although he didn’t counterattack once during Mehta’s onslaught.
Until Mehta’s rage made him overreach.
Lord Valdis’s left fist, wreathed in green flames, met the side of Mehta’s face in a stunning blow that nearly sheared the flesh off of his skull. He slammed to the ground, his face burned from the fire and his head spinning from the blow.
His cognition reignited as Lord Valdis’s violet blade lashed down at him for a killing stroke. By the time Mehta realized it, it was already too late.
But then an ice-forged hammer whipped into view instead, delivering what might’ve been the only real blow Lord Valdis had taken thus far.
The hammer hit Lord Valdis’s chest and knocked him back just far enough that his blade gouged into the stone floor instead of Mehta. For the heft Garrick had put into his swing, it should’ve done far more than that, but more of that same green fire had shielded him.
“Get up, kid,” Garrick grunted to him. Then he charged Lord Valdis once again.
Still dazed, seared, and generally miserable, Mehta rose to his shaky feet. As he did, he heard a loud crunch. Then Garrick landed next to him, stunned, but still clutching his hammer.
The sight of it disheartened Mehta, but he couldn’t falter now. If Garrick was down, Mehta had to pick up the slack.
His face burned with pain, and he considered pressing one of his ice-forged knives against it to cool it off, but he didn’t really know what that might do. As Mehta contemplated his next move, he realized that now two of the blood clones were coming for him rather than just the one Garrick had been fighting.
Aeron and Kent had, for whatever reason, joined forces against the other one, and Lord Valdis had pulled away from the battle and opted to let his blood clones do the work for him. That meant Mehta had to find a way to defeat both blood clones on his own—or at least he had to keep them away from Garrick.
If they reached Garrick, they could easily kill him and drain his essence with their violet blades. Without Garrick, the Blood Mercs stood no chance of winning. Mehta had to do something.
His ice-forged knives should’ve been enough, but they weren’t. He couldn’t get close enough to Lord Valdis to deliver a killing blow, and he’d failed to even determine how to kill the blood clones. Garrick had battered one of them mercilessly with his hammer, and that still hadn’t killed it.
Mehta considered snatching up the hammer and wielding it, but it would’ve been too heavy for him. The added reach and power wasn’t worth the cost of the added weight, and if Garrick hadn’t killed his blood clone with it, Mehta wouldn’t be able to, either.
So what other options did he have?
You know what you must do, the thirst whispered into his mind. There is only one option.
Mehta glanced down at the phantom steel weapons hanging from Garrick’s belt. If he grabbed them, his thirst would take over, possibly forever, but they might be the key to taking out the blood clones.
When he looked up, the blood clones were nearly upon him, and only he stood between them and Garrick’s death—possibly all of the Blood Mercs’ deaths.
So Mehta made a choice. He sheathed his ice-forged knives, whirled around, and grabbed the phantom steel battle-axe and flail from Garrick’s belt.
Mehta’s vision plunged into a sea of red, and rage and mayhem boiled in his blood, just as they had when he’d first taken hold of these weapons back in the fortress where the Govalians had held them captive. Fire burned under his teeth, and he clenched them tight.
His thirst took over, bonding with the phantom steel weapons’ pull. The pain in his face from Lord Valdis’s punch faded to a tingle, and the various aches throughout his body evaporated.
Mehta managed only one command before his body began to move on its own, now a slave to his thirst and the weapons’ influence: Turn away from Garrick.
His body listened. He spun back around and brought down the first blood clone in an onslaught of absolute devastation. The phantom steel weapons drained the essence out of the blood clone with each strike until it shriveled away to a mound of dust.
And with each strike, Mehta inherited more power. Soon the tingling on his face stopped entirely, and he could only feel the unbridled desire to destroy.
The second blood clone fared no better. It succumbed to his unrelenting attacks even faster than the first and also crumbled to dust.
Then Mehta turned toward his next target.
The final blood clone rushed toward him, away from Aeron and Kent, whom Mehta still recognized, even though he was merely a passenger watching his body annihilate the remaining blood clone. When he finished, he shouted at his thirst to turn its attention toward Lord Valdis, just as it had shouted at him so many times over the years.
To his surprise, it listened, and Mehta turned to face the man responsible for killing his parents, for making him a killer, for turning him into a living weapon incapable of anything but death and destruction. If sifting that man meant sacrificing himself to the whims of his thirst and these weapons, Mehta would gladly pay the price.
But as he began to approach Lord Valdis, the pull of the phantom steel weapons overwhelmed him, and a new voice entered his head.
Lord Valdis’s voice.
You didn’t really think my own weapons could harm me, did you?
He laughed, and the sound of it sickened Mehta to his core.
Those weapons are mine, as is the power that drives them.
And now you’re mine, too.
Then Mehta turned away from Lord Valdis, toward the Blood Mercs.
Chapter Thirty
Kent and Aeron had just finished helping Garrick to his feet when Mehta finished slaying the final blood clone.
At the moment the last blood clone went down, the shadowy robes from each of them drifted back to Lord Valdis. They coated his arms, legs, chest, and back, replacing his robe with tortured black armor made of shadow itself.
B
ut Lord Valdis didn’t matter nearly as much as Mehta, who now stormed toward them. At first, Kent had hoped Mehta might be able to turn Lord Valdis’s weapons against him.
Instead, dark fury now emanated from every part of Mehta. The way he looked, the way he walked—even the way he drew breath had changed. Nothing about him resembled the old Mehta aside from the flesh and bone walking toward them.
The only question in Kent’s mind was whether or not Mehta was still in there at all. Kent had to believe he was.
“What do we do now?” Aeron’s voice had a weary, forsaken timbre to it.
“We have survived thus far.” Kent mustered all the courage he could scrape together and injected it into his response. “That alone is a grand victory. Now we must finish this.”
Garrick grunted something unintelligible and started toward Mehta, but Kent caught him by his arm.
“I will handle him,” Kent said. “Aeron, kill Lord Valdis if you can, but if you cannot, at least keep him busy. Garrick, help him—or at least make it appear that you are helping. Destroy those scorallite crystals instead.”
“Why?”
Kent paused to erect a wall of ice around Mehta, who’d closed to within twenty feet of their position. A series of muted hacks and chops sounded from within it. The wall wouldn’t hold him for long.
“Lord Valdis is powerful on his own, but if we disrupt his ritual, it may tip the odds in our favor.”
“What if it kills Kallie?” Aeron asked.
“At this point, we don’t have much of a choice, kid,” Garrick said.
“I fear Garrick is right.” Kent hated having to admit it, but the chances of defeat dwarfed those of their victory, no matter how confident he pretended to be. “If we cannot defeat Lord Valdis, we must at least prevent him from becoming a god. If that means Kallie may die, then we must risk it.”
Aeron hesitated. “I swore I would give my life for her if it came to it.”
Kent gave him a sullen grin. “You may yet get your wish, Aeron.”
The wall of ice shattered, and Kent quickly erected a new one and enclosed Mehta in it once again. More hacking and chopping followed.
“We cannot overcome Lord Valdis. Our god-forged weapons have proven ineffective thus far, but if he is drawing power from those crystals, we may yet find a way,” Kent explained. “I want to save Kallie as much as you, but the truth is, we do not know what will happen. We can only try.”
Aeron hesitated again, but he nodded to Garrick. “Alright. But if you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you before Lord Valdis gets the chance.”
Garrick leered down at him. “If he’s gonna kill us anyway, I’ll let you do it. Then you can brag to all your idiot friends in the Underworld about how you killed a giant before you died. Just be quick about it.”
Mehta burst through the wall of ice again, truncating their conversation. Aeron and Garrick split to opposite sides, leaving Kent alone to face Mehta.
At first, it irritated Kent that they’d abandoned him, but ultimately they’d only done what he’d instructed them to do. So he raised his sword, summoned his magic, and engaged Mehta in battle.
Aeron would’ve preferred to face Lord Valdis with Wafer, but hearing and feeling Garrick’s lumbering footsteps plodding alongside his own filled him with a unique and welcome reassurance.
Lord Valdis literally wore shadow as armor. Did it provide him with extra durability? Could he conceal himself in dark areas better? Would it somehow improve his fighting prowess?
If it were any of those three, Aeron couldn’t fathom how it would work. After all, shadows had no power in and of themselves. They were just… shadows. Was it an intimidation tactic of some sort?
Lord Valdis smirked at them as they split apart and approached him from opposite directions. “Enough games. You’ve made your best moves. Now I will make mine.”
He clapped his hands once, and all of the torches around the room extinguished.
Aeron cursed. At least his naginata still gave off some light, as did the scorallite crystals and the orange light suspending Kallie and the dragon.
Even so, he couldn’t see Lord Valdis at all anymore. His armor had cloaked him from sight.
A whisper of rushing wind sounded behind Aeron, and he whirled around.
Something hard smashed into his cheek, and it almost knocked him off of his feet. The tang of copper filled his mouth, and he caught sight of Lord Valdis’s grinning face just before he vanished again.
Garrick grunted immediately afterward, and Aeron saw him double over.
Then Aeron’s feet kicked out from under him—or rather, something swept them out from under him. He landed hard on his back but still gripped his naginata.
How had Lord Valdis moved so quickly? Garrick and Aeron were at least thirty feet apart, but Lord Valdis had closed the distance multiple times, one instant to the next.
Was it his shadow armor? Did it enable him to move faster through shadows?
Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Aeron had a job to do, and he wasn’t doing it. He had to occupy Lord Valdis to give Garrick a chance to smash the scorallite crystals.
He forced himself up to his feet in time to see a silhouette knock Garrick to the floor. It stood over him with a shadowy spear outlined in dark blue light.
“Hey!” Aeron called.
Lord Valdis turned toward him, and Aeron could barely see his pale face against the backdrop of darkness.
“Pick on someone your own size.” Aeron held up his naginata. “You wanna fight with sticks? I’ve got a match for you right here, guaranteed.”
Lord Valdis laughed, and it reverberated all throughout the chamber. Aeron blinked and found Lord Valdis standing before him, twenty-five feet closer than he’d been before.
Lord Valdis’s spear jabbed at him, and Aeron jerked backward out of reflex and batted it away with a quick swat. The shadow spear returned from the side and nearly skewered Aeron’s gut. He shifted his positioning, and the spear glanced off of his breastplate armor instead.
But when Aeron swung for a counterstrike, Lord Valdis was gone.
Another whisper of wind sounded behind him, and Aeron spun around with his naginata raised.
Lord Valdis’s spear clanged against it in a clash of shadow and ice.
The longer he fought Mehta, the more Kent shifted his mentality from trying not to kill him to wondering if killing him was even possible.
He’d started by merely parrying the flurry of attacks Mehta had thrown at him with his sword. When Mehta proved too quick and crafty, Kent had resorted to erecting haphazard ice barriers to rebuff him, but he soon subverted those as well, either by avoiding them, anticipating them, or outright smashing through them.
The battle had progressed at a frightening pace until Kent had escalated to trying to freeze Mehta’s body in place, knowing full well that it might kill him in the process. But even that hadn’t worked. Whenever Kent froze Mehta, he just broke out of it using sheer, crazed strength.
Now, with the torches in the room extinguished, Kent barely managed to stay ahead of Mehta’s attacks. Mixing those barriers, swordplay, and beams of ice did just enough to keep Mehta at bay for the time being. But beyond holding Mehta off, Kent had no idea what to do next.
He froze one of Mehta’s legs to the floor with a fresh beam of ice, anchoring him in place for a moment.
“You need to stop this, Mehta,” Kent said. “We are not enemies. Lord Valdis is your enemy.”
Mehta bashed the flail against the ice around his ankle, and it shattered, freeing him to move once again. He immediately attacked.
Kent parried the first blow and ducked under the second. He formed another ice barrier, but this time he shoved it toward Mehta instead of waiting for him to attack. The barrier lifted Mehta off his feet and pinned him to the nearest wall.
It gave Kent a chance to breathe and another opportunity to try to break through to Mehta. With Garrick, he wouldn’t have even tried. Garrick was too pig-headed.
But with Mehta… Kent believed he could reason with him. And if he could, perhaps he could get Mehta to drop the weapons and rejoin the fight on their side.
“Listen to me, Mehta,” Kent said. “Release the weapons. You want to kill Lord Valdis for the sake of your family and Ferne. Do not feed into his power. You are nothing but his pawn. You must resi—”
The ice shattered, and Mehta lunged at Kent yet again. Kent defended everything, but he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.
Garrick needed to destroy those scorallite crystals now.
If nothing else, Garrick believed Aeron to be a reckless, immature, attention-grubbing, shortsighted idiot. He’d proven that much and more when he’d snatched the first dragon egg out of Garrick’s hand back at Valdis Keep.
Now he’d proven it again by distracting Lord Valdis so Garrick could recover and take a swing at the scorallite crystals with his hammer.
At least we’re all finally playing to our strengths, Garrick mused.
He pushed himself to his feet, hefted his hammer over his shoulder, and hurried to the nearest scorallite crystal. It stood nearly as tall as him and almost twice as wide.
Garrick glanced over his shoulder more than once to make sure Lord Valdis wasn’t going to stab him from behind, then he drew back for a swing and delivered a mighty blow to the scorallite.
CRACK.
In Garrick’s periphery, both the dragon and Kallie wobbled. He hadn’t been imagining it—it had happened, clear as crystal.
What’s more, a series of fissures spiked out from a central depression where his hammer had struck the scorallite. Not broken yet, but close to it
A yell sounded behind him—definitely Lord Valdis’s voice.
Garrick turned back for a look, and for a brief moment, their eyes met, and the sight of him renewed Garrick’s disdain.
Lord Valdis had manipulated him with words and coin and influence for years, gradually twisting Garrick into a different person—an evil person. And Garrick had allowed it to happen, for every wrong reason.
