by Chris Fox
Kezia set her feet and readied for another charge. She sprinted forward even as Skare flipped back to his feet. She’d nearly reached him when he twisted suddenly, like a matador dodging a bull in that stupid cartoon. She tried to adjust her course, but all that enhanced strength worked against her. She simply had too much momentum, and went stumbling past.
Kezia twisted in time to see a forest of tendrils stabbing down in her direction. Their tips had gone flat and rigid, like blades, but thinner than any sword. Kez rolled away, but there were so many tendrils. The first punched through the shoulder of the armor, but missed her arm.
The next came through the cockpit, and sank into the headrest, pinning her blonde curls, but missing her neck.
Third punched through her chest, and awful, acidic pain rippled out as something hot bit into her. The fourth tendril punched through her leg. By the time the fifth fell she could no longer focus through the pain. It came from too many places.
The rain of blows continued, and Kezia’s mouth filled with blood. She thrashed wildly to escape the pain, until the last blow fell and darkness came.
63
Vengeance
Aran’s heart broke as the blows continued to rain on Kezia. Time seemed to slow, and he became aware of Bord’s scout armor charging toward the fallen drifter, oblivious to Skare still standing there.
Aran did the only thing he could. Kezia was past protecting—part of him knew that, but if he didn’t stop Skare right now, the bastard would kill Bord too, and then maybe the rest of them.
Aran channeled his magic inward, as he’d seen Kezia do. He used fire to increase his strength and air to increase his speed. He used levels that the purely mortal version of himself would never have been able to manage.
So much so that when he glided toward Skare, wisps of magical energy rolled off his armor. Aran poured void in to increase his mass, and then slammed into Skare with the force of a meteor.
“Oof.” Skare’s black, emotionless armor tumbled end over end across the ground, the tendrils going limp as he rolled.
Aran spared a glance at Kezia, but only a glance. The corporal’s armor clattered limply to the ground, and Bord skidded up wordlessly to tend to her.
Aran returned his attention to Skare, who was already rising to his feet. He was about to charge again, when Rhea’s armor quite literally exploded. The magic was blinding, and when it faded, Aran found himself staring at an adult air Wyrm in the prime of its strength. Her mottled scales were similar to Kheross’s, though she was only a third of his size.
Wyrm-Rhea scuttled forward, and fell upon Skare in a storm of claws and teeth. His tendrils struck out, stinging the Wyrm’s face, but doing little to dissuade her rage. Rhea’s enormous mouth clamped down over Skare, and bit down with a crunch.
She shook his body like a rag doll, then hurled the arcanomech into the wall. The wall buckled with a tortured scream of metal, and sparks flew from the elbow joint of Skare’s armor. The Inuran rolled to his feet, his tendrils already rising as well.
Aran flashed forward, and drew Narlifex in the same motion. The forest of tendrils came for him, but Aran glided through them, twisting to avoid one that reached for his face, then another that came perilously close to his leg.
Narlifex flashed out toward the Inuran, and Aran blended every type of magic he possessed. He brought the blade down with his enhanced strength, and the blow connected just below the mech’s waist, where the leg met the body.
Magic fought magic, but Aran’s void overpowered Skare’s spellarmor. Xal devoured Nefarius, allowing the blade to slice Skare’s leg completely off. The Inuran patriarch gave a high-pitched shriek, and teleported to the far side of the hangar, where he tapped a potion loader. Gold flashed as the healing potion began its work, though there was no replacing the limb.
“Nah, you ain’t gettin’ no respite, you son of a bitch.” Crewes didn’t let up, and rocketed up into the air. He came down on top of Skare, and began slamming his fists into the mech’s helmet. The first few blows merely knocked Skare to the deck, but then the cracks began to spread across the oily black faceplate. “This is your invincible armor, huh? Your masterful weapon? Don’t look so impressive anymore. Looks like you’re missing a leg. Might be you’re about to be missing a couple arms, too.”
Tendrils exploded out from Skare, and began to encircle Crewes, but Aran flashed down, and sliced through them as quickly as they appeared.
“He’s mine!” Bord shrieked.
Aran glanced over his shoulder to see Bord standing there, Kezia’s hammer cradled in both hands. Towering flames rose from Bord, his fire magic flaring as the rage overtook him.
The specialist’s scout armor was covered in blood, but not his own. There was only one reason Bord wouldn’t be at Kezia’s side, and Aran felt the tears begin when he realized what it was. Only death would take him away from her.
“I finally found happiness,” Bord’s voice cracked. “And you took it away. You burned my home, and killed my friends. But this? This is too much. She was the best of us. The very best.” One of Bord’s hands shot up, and he wrenched off his helmet and hurled it to the deck. Tears streamed from his eyes as he tightened his grip on Kez’s hammer. Magical flame burned away the tears, and his mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. “I want you to look me in the eye when I kill you.”
Bord charged forward, fire exploding out all around him. He leapt twenty meters into the air, and brought Kezia’s hammer down in a high arc. Skare reached for his potion loader, but Crewes lunged forward, his gauntlet immobilizing Skare’s hand. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
Bord’s yell grew into a wordless shriek of grief and rage. The thick head of Kezia’s gleaming hammer slammed into Skare’s cracked faceplate, and crushed it with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted in all directions, and the helmet fell away to expose Skare’s ruined face, teeth missing and one eye crushed.
The hammer clattered to the ground, and Bord staggered back over to Kezia with a sob.
Skare struggled to rise, somehow still able to function despite the hideous damage his body had suffered.
Rhea’s clawed foot settled over the mech, and pinned it to the deck.
Aran walked wearily over, and kicked the remains of Skare’s helmet away.
“I don’t understand,” Skare whispered through mangled lips, one eye clogged with blood. “How is this…possible?”
“You do understand,” a calm voice answered, and Aran realized a new figure had appeared. It wore dark, bulky armor which revealed little about the figure waring it. It seemed utterly unobtrusive compared to the mechs they’d just fought. “You know the answer, but you do not wish to face it.”
Skare coughed, then spat a mouthful of blood onto his chest. Then he gave a ghastly grin. “I—I was never really that important. The ritual didn’t require me.”
“Oh, it did,” Talifax corrected. It could be no one else, Aran realized. “Your sacrifice is appreciated. And as you expire, know that I found your ambitions…amusing.”
Skare’s remaining eye closed, and after one last ragged breath his chest went still, and the life signs monitor inside his mech gave a single tone to indicate pilot death.
Aran twisted suddenly, but as fast as he was, there would have been no way to avoid the spell. Thankfully he wasn’t the target. A disintegrate passed through Talifax’s face with a ripple, then dissolved the wall on the opposite side of him.
“Illusion,” Aran cursed as Nara stepped into view with her spellrifle in hand.
“Of course,” Talifax said. The armor turned toward Aran. “Skare ensured that my presence here was unnecessary. That the rebirth would be complete. Now you will see that all of your plans, and all of your effort has amounted to nothing. Every bit of it happened because I allowed it to happen. You dance to my tune, puppets.”
Then he was gone. Aran whirled, but the last of the Inuran resistance in this part of the ship was dead. It really had been too easy, despite the enormous cost the company
had just paid. Bord’s horrified sobs ripped into Aran from behind, but he knew he had to keep moving.
“Bord,” he said solemnly. “Take her back to the ship. Davidson, Crewes, Rhea…fall back to the Talon and get prepped for flight.”
Aran glided over to Nara while the company headed back to the ship.
“You know it’s not likely we did enough damage to stop this thing,” Nara pointed out.
“And I don’t know if killing Skare did anything at all. I thought the ritual would be happening here, but it looks like we were wrong. There’s no magic circle to disrupt this time. Whatever their ritual is…I’m sure it’s bad for us. I don’t think we’re going to find it here. This was a diversion. The thing is…I have no idea where to look next.”
Nara glided toward the Talon, and Aran followed. She raised her helmet, and tucked it under her arm as she flew. “I don’t have any great ideas. We got played again. Maybe we fall back and see how Virkonna is doing.”
Aran wanted to punch a wall. It felt like there was no right answer.
They darted into the ship, and Aran willed the Talon to prep for take off. Just before he reached the ship he turned back to Skare’s distant body.
“Nara, you have enough juice for another disintegrate?” Aran asked.
Nara nodded.
“Clean that up, please. I don’t want to take any chances.”
64
Should Have Known
Nimitz had presided over many battles, usually in charge of a single vessel. Later in his career he’d been entrusted with an entire carrier group. He’d distinguished himself commanding the 9th, though they’d ceased to be a functional unit at Starn.
All those battles shared a common theme, one that scoured a man down to the raw materials the all mighty, if he existed, had originally imbued them with. A commander couldn’t really control a battle. The best they could hope for was that their subordinates obeyed orders, and that whatever plan they cooked up actually worked.
Yet in spite of his experience, Nimitz had trouble stifling the rage, frustration, and sheer helplessness overwhelming him. He sat alone in his blasted ship, the screen before him judgmentally displaying the carnage.
Aran had made good on his threat, and a single spell had eradicated a large swathe of the fleet. It had shown the incomprehensible forces they were dealing with. Nimitz’s fervent hope was that this NEF-1 unit, whatever it was, might even the odds. Otherwise these dragons were going to overwhelm them.
“Caelendra,” Nimitz rumbled as he rose from the command chair. “Status report.”
“Only nineteen Ternus ships remaining,” she gave back cheerfully. “At our current rate of casualties our remaining reserves will be wiped out unless we receive aid.”
Nimitz glanced at the scry-screen, which showed the unholy ritual at work. The planet-sized fist was coming apart, and quickly joined a pool of floating black liquid. That liquid filled Nimitz with unease, though he couldn’t precisely say why.
“Order our vessels to get away from that stuff. Disengage, and regroup—”
“I cannot comply, Fleet Admiral,” Caelendra interrupted.
“Why the bloody depths not?” Nimitz snarled, wishing there were something close at hand to smash.
“Protocol 9 has been initiated,” the voice explained cheerfully. “All control has been relinquished to the Dragon Skull.”
And there it was. Nimitz had suspected that pasty-faced clown might try to double cross them somehow. He knew that if he sent a communication Skare would ignore it, or feign ignorance, or explain why the transfer of control was necessary.
Nimitz sat heavily in his command chair. “Ha! Command. I was never in command, not from the moment we accepted these things. That kid was right. We made a devil’s bargain. Caelendra, will you send a message back to Ternus?”
“Of course,” she confirmed, “but only if that message is personal in nature. Any attempt to divulge the events of this battle, or to discuss NEF-1, will be deleted.”
Nimitz began to laugh. Skare had thought of everything apparently, and he imagined that bastard sitting in an office somewhere, laughing maniacally.
He watched as his ship and the other surviving vessels flew into a precise pattern. Their enemies had tricked them so completely that even though Nimitz had expected treachery, he was still caught off guard by the magnitude of it.
NEF-1 was clearly rising. But she didn’t belong to the people of Ternus. She wasn’t their savior. She belonged to the Inurans, or whatever dark powers they worked for.
Ternus had been duped, and the few surviving humans were about to be enslaved. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it either.
He reached down and unhooked the flap securing his sidearm. Nimitz had put in the time. He’d done his duty. He had operated to the best of his ability until the very end. He could take pride in that, at least.
Nimitz raised his pistol and pressed the cold metal to his temple. It was finally over. He stroked the trigger, and slipped into blessed, well-earned oblivion.
65
Rebirth
Virkonna belched another lightning bolt, this one charged with a primitive intelligence and sent to devil these blasted ships. It twisted between them, feeding them so much magic their reactors went critical. The spells were expensive, but unfortunately had proven the most expedient way to kill her opponents.
Even she had to admit that those vessels were works of art. Their ability to channel magic inward at a slow enough rate to drink it was something she’d never encountered before, not in thousands of battles across hundreds of millennia. Nefarius had never used such objects before.
But then Nefarius had never corrupted her brother’s power base so completely that he’d utterly lost control of it. She didn’t pretend to understand how or why he’d allowed that to happen, or Inura’s accusation that choosing to mourn as she had removed her ability to have an opinion on the matter.
Resentment still simmered between them, but thankfully they were experienced enough to put that aside during such a monumental battle.
Virkonna’s tail lashed out and encircled one of the smaller black ships. She whipped it around, adding a touch of air magic as she flung it into a larger ship. Both were damaged, but the larger ship crept back into combat.
“What does it take to kill these abominations?” she bellowed.
“They are impressive, and based on my own research,” Inura admitted. He still cradled Drakkon to his chest; the water Wyrm lived, but was unable to fight. The pair were surrounded under intense layers of wards, which would keep them safe from anything short of an elder god’s magic.
The few black ships that had tried to force their way through those wards were quick to receive lightning bolts from Inura, so they’d moved on to other targets. Most had selected smaller, younger Wyrms and many of Virkonna’s children had already fallen.
Their claws had found blood before then, however. Much of the Inuran fleet, both the conventional vessels and the sleek black ones, littered the space around the Fist of Trakalon.
Virkonna still remembered that titan, and wished that he were here now. He would never have stood for Talifax’s meddling, and would have been strong enough to find and kill the crafty sorcerer.
Magic surged within the fist, and Virkonna twisted to observe the phenomenon. At first with mere curiosity, but increasingly with apprehension, then horror.
Void magic, familiar void magic, rippled outward and consumed the rock around it. The great titan’s fist, which had weathered countless solar storms, meteors, and endless wars, began to implode. It melted inward and quickly joined the void energy, which grew considerably stronger for having absorbed all that primal earth.
“Inura, what are we witnessing?” Virkonna demanded. She kicked another of the blasted vessels away from her, and realized that it was one of the last few attacking her.
Most of the black ships had retreated, and were now clustered around the cloud of undulating void m
agic that had consumed the fist. Didn’t they fear the void magic? Perhaps they could withstand it, and that was why they took shelter there.
“That magic is a part of her rebirth,” Inura shouted back. He shook his head. “I do not understand what role the ships play, but destroying as many as we can would be advisable.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?” She swept her wings together, and knocked a trio of ships into each other, then breathed a bolt of lightning that shattered all three.
The surviving ships began to arrange themselves in a strange configuration, and Virkonna frantically struggled to destroy as many as possible. There were simply too many. Each one took so much effort to slay.
A chill swept through Virkonna when she recognized the form the ships were taking. Many had joined together somehow, end to end, and were now simulating parts of a skeletal structure. Wings and ribs, and an elongated neck.
She sucked in a deep breath, despite there being no air in space, and exhaled the most powerful lightning bolt she’d ever flung, enough air to slay a god. The magic slammed into the largest ship, the one that looked like a skull. Her magic played over it, but the metal drank it eagerly, and the lighting flowed down all the ships, fueling the ritual.
“Can you counter this?” She whirled and shot a desperate look at her younger brother. Doing so forced her to glance at her children once more, at how few had survived the battle thus far. Their ragged ranks were close to breaking, and had only survived because the black ships had fallen back.
Fallen back to become the skeleton for a reborn goddess.
The ships had completed their work, and a dragon not much smaller than Virkonna herself hovered in space—or its skeleton anyway. The flagship, the Dragon Skull, had maneuvered into position, and clicked into place with the ship that formed the last vertebra.
