“What are they doing?” asked Al’rashal as Urk reached her side.
“Wasting time,” he answered as he knelt at the water’s edge. The minotaur raised his arms to the sky and called to his god. Kurgen’Kahl was most known as the god of the seas and the storms, but to Urk’s people, he was also the lord of mountain snows and ice.
“They’re not wasting time,” warned Al as the injuries of the lykin knitted closed under the light of the leader’s staff.
Pulling the essence of winter into his fist, Urkjorman pressed his palm to the surface of the river, and the endless cold washed across it, freezing the surface and even part of the fall, connecting one side of the shore to the other. He felt suffused with the greatest chill and burned by the greatest exhaustion all at once and was barely able to drag himself back to his feet.
A cacophony of howls, snarls, and roars tore through the air as the lykin about the shaman tore out of their clothes and transformed into monstrous versions of wolves, tigers, and bears.
“Go,” ordered Urk.
The baron was the first to start across, with Al staying beside him. Urk came last and had barely made it onto the ice when the first wolf sprang at him. He brought his ax up, burying it in the wolf’s side as it clawed and snapped at him with its jaws. Two other lykin tried to rush past him, and he managed to slam the wolf he was wrestling with into another wolf, but the giant tiger got around him and charged his wife. Urk slammed his fist again and again into the side of the wolf he was struggling with, generating the sound of snapping bones and cries of pain. The other wolf sank its teeth into his calf as a third tried to leap upon them. Urk swung the wolf on his ax up, slamming it into the leaping wolf, knocking it away from the ice bridge and into the river. Then he grasped the wolf on his ax by the throat and slammed his horn through its skull. The wolf savaging his leg pulled back, barely evading a swing of Urk’s ax.
Urk took another step back. He was about halfway across the bridge now, and the rest of the pack seemed poised to attack. At some unspoken signal, four of the creatures charged. Urkjorman lifted his left hoof, filled it with radiance, and drove it down. A thunderous explosion cast three of the creatures back and sent deep fissures running through the ice. Urk turned and ran, trying to outpace the fractures spreading to the opposite shore as he heard another of the creatures tumble into the waters. However, the fissures were spreading too quickly. Soon he was hopping from piece to piece as they started to break away, and finally his hoof pushed into the frigid waters. He flailed, scrambling for purchase, and sank his ax into the chunk of ice before him, but that just caused the ice to split and break. He took a deep breath and prepared to be dragged into watery darkness.
Thin, delicate fingers wrapped around Urk’s wrist in a soothing warmth. The minotaur looked up to see the Baron of Wings hovering, two of his wings beating furiously as the other five held perfectly still, as though they were anchored to the air.
“Do more than admire the view, Urk. Pull,” said the baron.
Urk was able to drag himself back onto the ice and get to shore before the last pieces of the bridge were washed away. Al’rashal hugged him, then hugged the baron, and they all released a sigh of relief before turning their eyes back to the lykin and their master on the far side of the river. The shaman stared at them coldly and turned downriver. Urk put the baron on Al’s back and searched for a path north.
“I thought you had to be a full-blooded lycanthrope to change like that,” said Al.
“Moonstone,” answered the baron weakly. “Had to be moonstone.”
Urk looked up at the moon and its shattered fragments stretched across the sky, then at the shaman’s staff, emitting the same silver light. “It seems you aren’t the only one who has weaponized the sky, my lord.”
Slowly darkness claimed the stars, and clouds drifted in from the horizon. Urkjorman turned to the baron for answers but found him unconscious.
“Do you think he’ll make it?” asked Al’rashal.
“If he doesn’t, none of us will.”
Chapter Five
Nightfall
Something rumbled through the air and drew his attention back to the waking world. Slowly he became aware that he’d been unconscious and then that the low rumble, like distant thunder, had been words. “What?” asked the Baron of Wings.
“I think we’re almost there,” repeated Urkjorman.
One of the minotaur’s massive hands was cradling the baron’s face as his eyes struggled to focus. It was terribly dark. It seemed that even the moon had been smothered, with the only real sources of light coming from the minotaur’s ax and the centaur’s shield, both of which crackled with lightning. The baron looked about, his eyes peeling back the darkness to see the sparse trees and the broad path that led up to the Old Aerie. It remained as he remembered, little more than a series of high walls and pillars. Except for the massive arches that rose above the structure, it had nothing that even resembled a roof. He smiled. He was moments away from restoration and vengeance. “Yes. Soon I will be restored, and all will have what they deserve.”
Al’rashal set him down, and the two moved ahead of him. She and her husband were still cautious of unseen dangers.
His legs were unsteady, his wings heavy, and his body felt like ice wrapped around a ball of fire, but he only needed to make it a little further. However, something was nagging at him. Something that should have been obvious.
Beyond the entrance, the walls cast shadows so thick the baron felt he could grasp them. Within, the only light came from the weapons held by his protectors, and even that seemed to be waning, as though the shadows were slowly devouring it. And still something nagged at him. “Wait.”
The two stopped, weapons readied. “What?” asked the centaur.
“Do you hear anything?”
The two looked to each other, ears twitching back and forth, hunting for anything they might have missed. Urk shook his head.
“There should be music,” realized the baron. Even now, with darkness almost complete, the pixies, sprites, and flying things that roosted here should have been singing. More than that, they should have seen the three arriving, and come to greet them, especially if they had seen him walking and injured. “There should be others here. We should not be alone.”
“But you’re not alone,” rumbled Black-Hand from the darkness. The first they saw of him was the glint of one sickle the length of his arm. Then he stepped into one of the few shafts of light that reached the floor. He brought a second sickle into view and speared to it was a pixie. True to his species, he pulled the red cap from his head, crushed the last life from the pixie to soak its blood into it, and set it back on his bald head. “We’ve prepared a welcome for you, my lord.”
The redcap was joined by the three remaining water carriers and another dozen or more other members of the Iron Guard, and behind them, what had first appeared to be torches on the wall moved to reveal they were the fiery manes of horses with coal-black skin and gleaming crimson eyes. “No,” said the baron. “Taking my throne is one thing, but you don’t really think you can—”
“Kill them,” ordered Black-Hand.
The baron ducked as two arrows barely as long as his forearm passed over his head. The minotaur charged forward, swinging his ax in a wide arc that sent a few brownies ducking for cover, and the centaur began facing off with the assassins. The baron clung to the nearest wall and hurried through the shadows. The interior of the Old Aerie was a maze of dead ends and half corridors designed to make moving on its heart difficult on foot. Part of him was proud of how well it worked now that he was incapable of flight. If he died here, at least it would be because his own genius had betrayed him. He rounded the nearest corner and pulled his head back in time to prevent an ax from splitting his skull.
“Here!” shouted the brownie, drawing the attention of an elf at the far end of the hall.
The brownie swung again, savage two-handed strokes that created sparks as they impacted
the wall. The baron grasped the haft of the ax, ignoring the way the iron made his hands tingle, and twisted it from the brownie’s hand, then buried it in his chest. The elf was on him now, using a long, thin sword to stab at him, which forced the baron to dance backward. “What has Black-Hand offered you?”
“More than you can,” answered the elf.
“Pity.” The baron spat a globule of bloody phlegm into the elf’s face. The elf took a step back, sweeping out with his sword to ward the baron off, but the baron deflected the swing with a wing and punched his fingers into the elf’s chest. The elf fell, gasping as his collapsed lung filled with blood. The baron picked up the blade and tested its balance, then bowed. “Thank you.”
A wave of vertigo almost sent him to his knees. The contamination was getting worse. He hurried around the next two corners and crashed to the ground as someone swept his legs out from beneath him. He rolled and came up swinging, deflecting the blade that came for his throat. He thrust out, skewering the shoulder of another redcap, and tried to sprint around another corner but found his path blocked by one of the water carriers. The assassin smiled, held his staff forward, and launched a gleaming sphere at him. Reflexively the baron slashed the air, intercepting the sphere and causing it to explode into a cloud of iron that enveloped his upper body. Pain poured through his lungs and eyes. “Urk!”
New pain opened in his abdomen and shoulder. He swung, felt the resistance of parting flesh, and heard a body hit the ground before his vision returned. A pixie drew her tiny bow but was struck by a bolt of lightning before she could fire. Urkjorman came up behind him and rested one massive hand on the baron’s shoulder. “Al, over here!”
One of the assassins tumbled through the air as the centaur came into view. She turned, racing to their side, and the baron hurled his stolen blade past her and into the chest of one of the sprites following her.
“Thanks,” said Al’rashal as she began looking around for more attackers. “But you should have probably held on to that.”
He chuckled and pointed at a patch of darkness he knew to be a gap in the walls. “That way.”
“How long do you think you can keep this up?” shouted Black-Hand.
“Long enough to—” But he was cut off by the pain carving through his body. He lost control of the sky, and the last rays of moonlight faded away.
“Ha! You have nothin’ now!”
“I have enough,” he grumbled, but he was barely able to stand without Urkjorman’s help. He moved a fragment of his energy into his wings, and they glowed, creating a sphere of light about him and his protectors.
“Is that wise?” asked Urk.
“It is necessary.”
“You must have made quite the promise ta these fools ta create this kind of loyalty,” spat Black-Hand. “Shame you were never goin’ ta honor it.”
Urk looked down at the baron.
“He’s lying. I have to,” said the baron.
They rounded another corner, and before them was what was probably the last dwindling rays of moonlight falling on Black-Hand, the assassins, and the remaining Iron Guard. The baron drew on his diminishing strength and grasped the sky once more, struggling to keep the clouds from moving in completely. “You do not understand what will come of this … what comes with the darkness.”
“Oh, I know. But do ya protectors know what you’ve been hidin’?”
The altar was behind Black-Hand. “If we rush, maybe we can get past,” suggested the baron.
“What’s he talking about?” asked Al’rashal.
“Ya deaths,” shouted Black-Hand. “You were supposed ta die in the Aerie.”
“Lies!” shouted the baron. “My blood is on the floor, same as theirs!”
“The best lies carry a bit of truth, eh?” said Black-Hand with a smile as he prowled forward.
“Truth, did you tell them the truth, Black-Hand? That when darkness falls, your promises will mean nothing?”
“I promised that with darkness, the brave will be rewarded.”
“Fine. Then have your darkness.” The baron relinquished all control of the sky, and the clouds overhead thickened into a layer of darkness that was almost solid. With it came the hiss of slithering things, and the growl of monsters oozing from the shadows.
The warriors with Black-Hand looked around apprehensively. One of the horses came forward, approaching a water carrier, and in one fluid motion opened its mouth and closed it around the man’s head. The other two assassins pulled back even as something that looked like a cross between a bat and a wolf’s head snatched one of the glowing pixies from the air.
The baron smiled. “How brave are your allies now?”
He could feel more of the things coming and knew reaching the altar would be impossible. Looking about, he found what he needed and rushed to the far wall as Black-Hand laughed. Pressing his palm to the wall, he thought passage, and the wall peeled aside. “Come!”
Al and Urk hesitated.
“Out here with monsters, or in there with me,” implored the baron.
“Out here with the honest, or in there with ya executioner!” shouted Black-Hand as spiny tendrils began to crawl around the walls toward the two. One of them lashed around Al’rashal’s arm, and Urkjorman severed it with his blazing ax. “Give up ya oath and keep ya lives!”
“He can give you your lives but not your dreams,” said the baron. “And he will not leave you with even that.”
Someone screamed in agony, and that seemed to make up their minds. They followed him down the passage, and as it closed behind them, they could hear Black-Hand laughing.
The tunnel filled in, sealing them in the Old Aerie’s lower levels, and the Baron of Wings allowed himself a sigh of relief.
“We safe here?” asked Al’rashal.
The baron nodded. “There’s thirty feet of soil and stone between us and Black-Hand now. Even if he had a mind to pursue us, he couldn’t.” He gestured to the walls about them as he allowed the light of his wings to fade, revealing the soft green-blue light of the fungus crawling over the walls. “And these ensorcelled walls should keep the things out, at least for now.”
“Good,” said Urkjorman before one of the minotaur’s massive hands slammed into his chest, pinning the baron to the near wall.
The might of the blow forced blood and spit from his mouth and sent darkness washing across his vision. By the time his senses had returned, the minotaur’s ax was pressed to his throat.
“What was Black-Hand talking about?”
He looked to Al’rashal to see the centaur had her sword aimed at him as well. “Nonsense to turn you against me. Trying to manip—”
Urkjorman cut him off by pressing the iron ax to his throat. He could feel his flesh tingle at the cursed metal’s touch. “The truth!” roared the minotaur.
“It is the truth! Black-Hand wants you—” He stopped when he felt the blade sink into his throat and could smell his blood sizzling on its edge. “I hired the assassins, hoping you would die defending me.”
“Kill him,” ordered Al.
“Wait,” he cried, grasping the ax handle before Urkjorman could push it in deeper. The minotaur’s strength was almost the equal of his own in his weakened state and would soon exceed it. “Black-Hand is no better.”
“Maybe it’s better we take our chances with him,” said Urk, pushing the ax harder, drawing more blood.
“I am still the only one that can grant you what you want.”
“Can you?”
He could feel the tight ball of warmth building in his heart even as the rest of his body was filling with a creeping cold. He looked the minotaur directly in his good eye. “Yes.”
Urk released him, and the baron collapsed to the ground. He took a few steadying breaths and looked up at the two, his protectors-cum-judges.
“Explain,” said Al’rashal. “Everything.”
“Auvithia,” began the baron. “We possess the power to make pacts that change the world: protect the land
and control the sky, grant eternal youth, or transform others as they desire. However, it is the act that gives us the power. I can grant your dreams because I promised to do so, and you promised to serve.”
“So why try to kill us?”
“I cannot touch the power or use it until the pact is completed, and I can only use it for what is promised … unless you break your end of the bargain.”
“Like Borden.”
He nodded.
“Or die.”
He answered with silence.
“That’s why you didn’t fear the water carriers,” said Al. “They weren’t there for you.”
He shrugged. “I would not have feared them even if they had been. If I had not cast off my raiment and been poisoned by iron, I could have killed them all myself. Black-Hand used the opportunity to strike at me when I was most vulnerable. And I aided him by helping him smuggle assassins into my kingdom.”
“I still don’t know why we shouldn’t kill you,” said Al.
“Because I still can grant your desires.”
“I’ve lived this long without children. I can manage with just Urk to love me until I die.”
Urkjorman looked to his wife for a moment, then to the baron, and lifted his ax.
Wayward Magic (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 2) Page 23
