The D'Karon Apprentice (58 page)

Greydon gave a stiff nod and moved as quickly
over the rubble as his limbs would allow.

The air filled with an inhuman shriek of
anger and all eyes but Greydon’s turned to Ether. She was at the
center of a thicket of threads, searing her way through them as
quickly as Turiel could conjure them and inching steadily closer.
She was blindingly brilliant, illuminating Turiel’s features as she
began to show the stress of battle.

Myranda stalked forward, her own staff
raised, and began to pull her mind to the task of dispelling the
dark workings of Turiel’s own magic. Each wave of blue-white light
that pulsed from her staff’s gem caused the lashing swirl of black
threads to wither just that much more and allowed Ether to advance
just that much closer.

“I’m begging you, Turiel, before anyone else
gets hurt, let us discuss this reasonably. Let us—”

“I am truly sorry, Myranda, but I’m years
past the point of reason,” she interrupted. “And what I do now, I
do only because you’ve forced me to.”

She dropped to one knee and clutched her
staff tight with both hands. The threads slashing at Ether instead
wove themselves into a dense shield to protect her. Answering some
unheard call, the swirling torrent of spirits curled around behind
her and descended upon the heroes like locusts upon a field.

Icy phantom fingers clutched Ether’s form and
hauled her back. Spirits fell upon Myn, each ghastly blow seeming
to cut into not the flesh but the soul, jolting the dragon with
pain that went beyond the limits of mere injury.

Myranda burst forward and thrust her staff
down, driving it into the cobbles and wrapping her mind tightly
around it. The rush of spirits parted around her like the flow of a
river around a bridge’s supports.

Myn ducked down into the void in the storm of
souls that Myranda created, and Ivy huddled close. For a few heroic
moments it seemed that Ether would still get her hands about the
throat of the necromancer, but floating as she was in the focal
point of the spectral flood, it was only a matter of time before
she was thrown back. She shifted to stone midair and thumped to the
ground. The rush of angry spirits forced her back across the
ground, but she dug her toes into the bricks beneath her and
stomped forward.

Myranda squinted through the brilliant flow
of spirits, their unearthly chill cutting her to the very soul.
Ether’s determination was remarkable. Even as the constant assault
of the massacre’s victims caused cracks to feather her stony
surface, she didn’t falter.

Turiel watched as Ether drew nearer, but the
sorceress appeared unconcerned in the face of the furious
shapeshifter. She’d let her shield fall away and now wore an
expression that was almost bemused.

“I would suggest that you are pushing me to
make a very unpleasant decision, but I believe it has been
established that you don’t care about such things, do you, Ether?”
Turiel asked calmly. “Very well. Mott, defend Mommy.”

The screeching rush of spirits suddenly
scattered, becoming less focused on Ether in particular and more of
an indistinct hailstorm of unguided rage. Ether thundered two steps
closer before Mott’s massive jaws snapped around her, grinding
angrily at her body before he whipped his head aside, hurling her
in a high arc over the city walls.

Myn took the act as an invitation to finally
charge into battle, leaping over Myranda and enduring the stray
attack of an angry spirit as she kept her eyes set on the
monstrosity ahead. She drew in a deep breath and released it as a
shaft of flame toward Mott. He yelped in surprise and coiled his
long body barely around the attack, essentially dodging in all
directions at once. It spared him the burn, but left him in no
position to dodge the dragon’s charge. A titanic, fleshy thud and a
yowl of pain signaled the impact as Myn drove her lowered head into
the armored scales of Mott’s underbelly. Scratching, spindly legs
wrapped around her, driving their claws into her scales. His long
body constricted around hers, immobilizing her legs and wings. It
took every ounce of his strength and all of his attention, but Mott
was just barely able to keep Myn occupied, tangling with her and
rolling about the ruins of the castle.

“Now do you see what you’ve done?” Turiel
called to Myranda. “I’ve lost the attention of the spirits. What
they do to the city and its people is entirely on
your
head.”

Myranda turned to the reconstructed southern
side of the city. Indeed, though they were not doing so in a
concentrated or dedicated way, the points of light representing the
angered shades of people she’d once called her countrymen were
diving and sweeping among those places where the living residents
of New Kenvard had taken shelter.

The young wizard did not take the time to
waste words. Almost without thought she found herself rushing over
the piles of rubble, raising her staff and steadying her mind.
Spirits were things of magic and emotion. Some, like that of her
mother, were thinking things, capable of compassion and reason.
Those who tore at the town were not. The aspects of the heart and
mind that defined a human or other sapient creature had been burned
away in the heat of the tragedy that had ended their lives. These
were
not
the people she had known in life. These were the
stains in the living fabric of her world that were left by the
massacre. They were shadows, twisted and grotesque mockeries of
what they had been. Until whatever held them here could release
them, Myranda knew that they felt only the torturous need to spread
their dark feelings to others.

She had to forget who they were and treat
them as the force of nature they had become. And unlike a normal
storm, which could be held at bay by a sturdy roof and stout walls,
these spirits passed effortlessly through the wood and stone. Their
grim attacks could only damage the living. The people were
defenseless. Myranda had to do something to give her people a
chance.

By the time she skidded to a stop in the
center of the restored portion of the city, she had her answer. Now
the only concern was if she had the skill and strength to work the
appropriate spells, and if Turiel would allow her to do so…

#

Ivy stood her ground among the rubble of the
castle. A blue aura flashed and swirled about her, but she managed
to keep her terror in check. The only weapon she had, besides the
teeth and claws she knew would do her little good against someone
like Turiel, was the bow and arrow. She set her feet and reached
back for the quiver, her shaking fingers finding the fletching of
one of the shafts. As she nocked the arrow and began to draw the
string, the malthrope saw Turiel turn her eyes to Ivy, seemingly
disappointed by what she saw.

“Ivy. You know what I know now,” Turiel said,
her posture relaxed and her voice reasonable. “And I know what you
know. Life has been difficult for us both, but you
must
see
that even if these people have always meant the best for the world,
I must honor my task. I mustn’t let my crimes be without
reason!”

“Turiel, there is a better way,” Ivy
said.

“No! There is
not!
The D’Karon are the
only way!” Turiel growled. She stirred the air with her staff. “And
they have left enough of themselves behind in this city to
prove
that!
Do you recall what the D’Karon made of this place once it
was theirs? I know that you do. I saw it in your mind. It was a
place for the
manufacture
of their foot soldiers. This is
the place where so many of their nearmen were created. And though
you and the others have worked to clear them away, there were still
plenty
of pieces to be put to good use. And I’ve been quite
busy with them.”

Threads began to spiral down the staff and
slip between the cracks of the stone at her feet.

“Don’t! I won’t let you!” Ivy cried.

She took aim and fired. Alas, a few hours of
training even at the hands of someone as skilled and patient as
Celeste were not sufficient to keep her hands steady and her aim
true in such trying circumstances. The arrow hissed through the
air, missing Turiel by more than a foot.

Ivy cried out in frustration and reached for
another arrow.

“There, there. No one is perfect,” Turiel
said encouragingly. “I’m sure in time you’ll—”

The necromancer stopped suddenly and looked
up, raised her staff above her head, and braced it with both hands.
A fraction of a heartbeat later, a form from above came slamming
down atop her. It was Ether. She must have shifted to wind and
climbed high above the battleground, then shifted to stone again
above her target. Unlike Ivy’s arrow, the shapeshifter’s aim was
true. She struck with such force that both she and Turiel punched
through the stone floor, crashing down into the lower level of this
section of the fallen castle.

Ivy raced up to the hole and peered down just
as a flare of fire cast light all around. Ether was in her fiery
form now, swiping and darting around Turiel as she frantically
raised any defense she could to deflect the willful flames. The
malthrope’s eyes widened as she saw what
else
the light fell
upon.

All around the fierce battle was devastation.
Not a single support column was fully intact. Many sections of
floor had fallen away to still deeper layers of the castle’s
catacombs. Walls were mostly rubble and fractured stone. She
wondered how the heaps of collapsed palace walls that were mounded
above had remained where they were rather than collapsing further
into the hollows and voids below. From the worrying way the ground
shuddered and quaked with each blow from Ether or Myn, she very
much doubted the castle would remain as intact as it was for much
longer.

Worse even than the likely collapse was the
fact that Ether and Turiel were not alone in the bowels of the
castle. Motion drew her eyes to the shifting shadows cast by the
mounds of stone. Several hundred forms, most dressed in twisted but
functional armor, were pulling themselves from the rubble. Nearmen…
Ivy had been foolish enough to believe that she’d been done with
them, that she’d seen the last of the blasted playthings of the
D’Karon. Seeing them again, knowing what they had done, and that so
many of them had been lurking even in their inert form within the
place she called a home was enough to tip the emotional balance
firmly in the direction of anger.

Her fist tightened around the grip of the
longbow and long wisps of red aura flicked and rolled around her.
She dropped the bow and slowly slipped the quiver from her back,
teeth bared and eyes darkened. As much as she’d tried to suppress
the emotions that would claim her mind and body, those things that
would turn her into the weapon the D’Karon had meant her to be, in
this moment the strength that flooded through her and the pure,
righteous fury that welled in her chest were welcome. Right now a
weapon was what she needed to be. But tooth and claw would only get
her so far. She needed to be properly armed if she was to be any
good to her friends.

Realization dawned a moment later. This was
New Kenvard. This was her home.

“Keep her busy, Ether,” Ivy called, her lips
curving into a fierce grin. “I’ll be right back…”

#

Myn struggled against Mott, but the
stitched-together concoction of a beast was far stronger than he
had any right to be. His powerful tail was clutched so tight around
the dragon she could scarcely breathe, and his long neck was
cinched tight around her head and snout, leaving her flame to spray
uselessly from her nostrils. The one saving grace was that it was
taking every ounce of his considerable strength to keep his grip on
her, and as eager to please as he was, he lacked anything
resembling skill and tactics. His combat was centered on raw
strength and frenzied attacks.

She rolled to the side and shook her body,
managing to dislodge the coils trapping her wings. Instantly she
put them to work, catching the rushing wind and flexing hard. Three
mighty flaps got Mott and Myn airborne. The familiar tried to work
his own wings to bring their flight under control, but the
tug-of-war in the air was impossible for him to win. Instead, every
flap of his wings drew more and more of his long body away from
hers until finally her claws were free.

The dragon slashed viciously at Mott, carving
deep gashes into his armored hide. If the monster had any blood to
spill, there was little doubt it would be running freely. When her
jaws slipped free of his coils, she belched a potent blast of flame
that seared and blackened the scraggly fur of Mott’s face,
inspiring the monster to release her entirely.

For several seconds the two creatures hung in
the air measuring the other and planning their next attack. As Myn
tensed herself to swoop in and attempt to end the battle, she
realized that the gashes on his belly were visibly closing. Even
the blackness of his fur was fading quickly. He was healing. In
seconds the worst of the damage was gone.

Mott grinned, his eyes flashing with defiance
as he finished recovering. The creature seemed to be utterly
reveling in the thrill of combat, madness driving his motions as he
caught a fresh gust of wind with his wings and was pulled higher
before tucking them back and plummeting toward her.

She pulled aside, but his body lashed wildly
from side to side and his spearing legs spread like a net. The
sheer size of the attack made it impossible to dodge cleanly. The
very tip of his tail caught the base of her wings, and he coiled
three quick loops about them, robbing her of her mobility and
sending the pair plummeting down like stones.

They struck the ground with punishing force
in a still-ruined section of the northern portion of the city.
Mott, though he took his share of the impact, never stopped tearing
and scrabbling at Myn. The tips of his spidery legs worked like the
picks of a mining team, chattering and chipping at the same
concentrated section of Myn’s side until finally they broke through
her scales.