33 The Turning of Magic

WITHIN THE STORM of Tartaros’ fury, Ralan gathered the last of his strength. The soul shard was a few feet away, but the shraeds’ fury had grown to the point he couldn’t reach it.

They surrounded him, their voices beating at him, more vicious and deadly than their wings, for within those voices was the absence of hope and the promise of oblivion.

His arms stretched towards the weapon, but he knew he couldn’t reach it. It was pointless, and he let his arm drop. However, he refused to give in to the shraeds’ demands.

‘You’ll have to tear me apart, you twisted bastards,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. The pain was reaching a point beyond tolerance even for him. His blood washed the stones and the tomb of his sister Torment.

A cracking sound ripped the air, and the shraeds flinched. Ralan felt them loosen their hold a little, but he was much drained and far weaker, too weak to take advantage.

The stone face of Striga split as her eyes opened, and then an arm burst through the cooled lava. The Torment female’s body was a mass of charred burnt skin, but then looks weren’t a Torment’s first concern. She rose with speed, and the shraeds moved to attack her.

Several more cracks ripped through the cavernous chamber and Ralan smiled. It was a difficult thing to kill a Torment. He should know since his siblings had tried killing him several times.

Striga grappled with the shraeds, and their swirl of dark night became an epic storm. Winds whipped about the chamber at tremendous speeds, and Ralan was forced to his knees, trying not to get swept away.

Cadaver and the others managed to reach him and Striga, and they joined the fight. Ralan knew there was only one way to end this. He stretched out his arm one last time, as the winds reached such force that he feared they would flay him alive. Not that much of him remained that wasn’t already covered in blood.

They were distracted now, having more than one foe to contend with, their hold on him weakening. His fingers closed about a hilt and at its touch, he felt stronger. In the face of the gale, he rose and lurched forwards.

Vipir and Mara were doing their best to wrestle one of the shraeds but its powerful wings and talons were ripping into them. Mara was swept away to slap into the wall, falling senseless. Ruza and Strix tackled another, while Cadaver tried to hold one down, gripping it by the wings. The leader managed to rip the wings free as he roared, tearing the shraed apart.

Vipir looked about done, but Ralan reached the shraed and stabbed it in the back. Its wings slammed into him as it shrieked in horror, but the shard had its teeth in it and wasn’t about to let go.

The shraed was devoured, and the winds lessened. Then the Torments gathered about the final shraed. It fought, hissing and shrieking, tasting blood with every swipe, but to no avail. It was the largest of them.

Ralan loomed over it, and even Cadaver seeing his face, stepped back.

Grabbing the shraed by the neck with one hand, the Son of Grim stabbed it where its heart should have been. The winds died as its otherworldly cries rose, and then it was done. His next thought, as though it had been waiting for its chance to come out and breathe, was of Sarscha. He needed to find a ghoul, and he needed to get back to her.

Cadaver stood breathing heavily, scarred face filled with something like respect as he offered Ralan a nod.

The others had gathered around, including a stumbling Mara, who looked like she’d been driven through a wall. Well, almost.

Striga smiled. ‘Perhaps today, we have made a difference for the first time in our lives.’ She thumped Ralan on the arm and offered him a red grin.

None of the others spoke, each looking solemn as they no doubt thought of the greater battle being fought.

‘Yes,’ Ralan whispered more to himself than to anyone else, ‘maybe we have made a difference. But we can make an even bigger one. I believe hidden somewhere here in this fortress is a hoard of soul shards. We need to gather them all.

‘And we need to hurry.’

‡

The Icarthian imperatrix staggered through a street of flames, trying to remember which way she was supposed to go. To avoid the smoke, she’d wrapped an old rag around her mouth and tied it off, ignoring a distinctly unpleasant smell.

She knew her city intimately, every street corner, every stone, having grown up in Icarthya and played in its streets. Neither Aiyana, Threadfin, and certainly not her father, had known she’d also snuck out. It had been inevitable. She had followed her siblings often. How else could she have told on them unless she’d known what they were up to?

She regretted it all now, having grown up and developed a very different view of the world, but as a teenager she’d been a terror. Her brother had often got the blame, Aiyana escaping despite Sarscha’s jealous efforts. She had always tried to better them. She’d been a fool.

Back then, wandering the streets in clothing she’d stolen, she had pretended to be a merchant’s daughter. Not too rich and snooty, nor too poor and light-fingered. It meant she got to almost anywhere in the city, including the Muck. One of her regrets was never telling her sister the truth, thanking her for that gift of freedom, and Threadfin too. I guess I could still tell him, she thought, but I doubt I’ll survive this. She knew she should be dead, if not for poor Art.

She climbed the hill, escaping the spreading fire and smoke. There were bodies here and there, and as she eventually came down the other side past the steps of Wept, she saw the rest of the city laid out before her. From her vantage point she might have believed all was well down there, but those strange ships in the harbour, the fires, and the cries floating on the wind told a different story.

It was where she’d intended to go, before being duped by Lazar. She had no sword, and she was covered in blood and blackened by soot. Her legs sometimes felt weak since that blow to the head. None of it mattered. If I’m going to die, then I’ll do it leading my soldiers and defending my city. Perhaps she would not go down as Icarthya’s greatest imperatrix, but maybe as one of its greatest military commanders, and that would do just fine.

When she reached a street leading almost straight to the docks, she was greeted with mayhem. Citizens were attempting to flee, but there were so many people and soldiers, it proved impossible for them all to get out. Nightmares appeared, and several of their lumbering blackened victims, spreading panic and chaos.

There were virals attempting to dispatch the nightmares, and soldiers guarding them, fighting to force a way through for the mages.

Sarscha grabbed one soldier by the arm, a corporal, and almost got an elbow in the face for her trouble. ‘Where is Tezcat Licolo?’ she shouted over the noise. How fitting an end was this? To die in the streets with everyone else, forgotten, unknown, when she should have been up there leading from the front, as she’d always done.

Recognising her, or perhaps it had just been the command in her voice, the soldier’s eyes widened, and he grabbed another. This one a captain, shouted something, words lost beneath the clamour of voices.

The captain pointed towards the docks, but far off to the left, and Sarscha began to shove her way through. To his credit, the young soldier began to shove ahead of her, screaming at folk to make way. It didn’t exactly make everyone leap aside, but it helped.

Then some folk recognised her, and their reactions varied. Seeing her in such a sorry state, with a blood-smeared face instilled more fear in some, while others beseeched her for help.

All she could do was keep her head down and forge ahead, like the prow of a ship through the heaving waves of the Adalcis.

The sound of magical eruptions reached her, and she felt the energy like the lightning of a storm in the air, only more.

When she reached the dockside, she entered another world filled with the stench of smoke and blood, hideous creatures, screams and death, all beneath the crackling explosive power of magic.

Sarscha spotted her imperial mage, Tezcat Licolo, right in the middle of it. A nimbus of night surrounded her, fed it seemed by the other virals with pulsing dark tentacles of magic connecting them. Although there must have been several hundred viral mages, she realised it might not be enough. She’d had no choice but to spread them out, to concentrate some in the Gulley, and others across various cities in the imperium.

As she halted and stared at the raging scene, she saw several mages killed by monstrous creatures. In their midst, there were others who floated, unhindered by the viralic magic, deadly and unstoppable. Their focus was on the virals, but she knew it would not last.

Then something strange happened to what she realised must be wights. They began dissipate like smoke from a chimney. Something odd had occurred, and though she didn’t understand it, she began to hope. The other creatures, who were a hodgepodge of various limbs and distortions remained, but the tide was turning.

Soldiers who had been fleeing, terror in their faces, stopped and stared. She searched through the mayhem, seeking some focal point where she could rally them. She needed a high point, but she also needed one person in particular.

Then, she spotted him. 

A figure stood near another creature, one he’d told her of, a ghoul if she remembered correctly. He had returned as he’d promised he would. She wondered if the wights vanishing had something to do with him.

Turning, Ralan spotted her and waved. She reached him in a few strides, but had no time to greet him as she would have liked, and it had nothing to do with decorum. He seemed to be wounded, covered in blood, but he was grinning at her.

‘The shards!’ she shouted at him to be heard over the din of battle and booming magic. ‘Where are the bloody shards?’

Then she saw another Torment, much larger than Ralan, carrying a bundle, which he dropped at her feet. Then two more of them shoved their way through, scaring the soldiers as much as the enemy. They too carried bundles. They were each damaged, as though they’d walked through fire. Perhaps they had.

Wasting no time, Sarscha unwrapped the first and pulled out a long blade, far longer than the short sword she was used to. There were many types, some spears, and some blades in shapes and designs she could never have dreamed of.

‘My mother,’ said Ralan as loud as he could, with a grimace for good measure, ‘had a secret stash. I raided it.’

Sarscha didn’t understand what he was talking about and didn’t care. Grabbing a sergeant by the scruff she dragged him close. His eyes widened as he recognised her. She shoved a spear in his hands. ‘Get as many officers over here right now! Get these handed out. We have a battle to win. Move, move!’

He nodded and rushed off, while she left Ralan to organise matters. The other Torments had now formed a perimeter. Spotting a wagon, she leapt on top of it and the stacks of timber it was loaded with.

Raising her blade high, she cried out for those soldiers nearest to gather about, and thanks to the efforts of the sergeant, several dozen did.

‘These are soul shards. Take them and hand them out,’ she ordered. ‘Reform ranks, spears to the front. Move!’

Ralan was there repeating her instructions for anyone who couldn’t hear, and she felt glad he was with her. She didn’t feel so alone.

Further down the docks, the mages had formed a semi-circle with Tezcat at its centre, but the circle was contracting as virals fell to the enemy. Not as many as when the wights had attacked, but too many for Sarscha to feel easy.

‘Ral,’ she shouted, pointing with her spear. Seeing the danger, he nodded. Moments later, the Torments began to push forward until they reached the virals, and then flanking them, began to push the enemy back.

Next came the phalanxes, all armed with soul shards in the form of spears. There weren’t enough shards to arm everyone, but it was a damn sight better. Other phalanxes with ordinary spears followed.

Soldiers stabbed at the creatures, who now shrieked and fought to escape. Some fell apart, as though whatever dark magic held them together had evaporated.

Getting down from the wagon, Ralan at her side, she began to lead the other ranks forward. She directed several cohorts left and right to flank the enemy. ‘Force them back to the ships,’ she screamed. ‘Don’t give them any room. Hem them in!’

All was going well until she heard cries from behind. She’d forgotten about those bloody nightmares. They now attacked her rear, and it was all her people could do to hold them back. Not everyone had soul shards.

With the spearmen and swordsmen forcing the revenants into the ocean, Tezcat Licolo turned her attention on the nightmares.

Lightning barbs of dark magic shot from her hands, pinpointing each one and exploding it in a welter of fish guts and seawater.

Sarscha felt a lurch in her heart when she saw the viral girl. Tezcat’s eyes were swollen and had turned pure white as though she’d gone blind. Her skin pulsed with a webbing of dark power. The imperatrix feared the amount of magic flowing through the undead girl was destroying her.

With the nightmares under control at least, the imperial mage turned her attention back to the revenants. Some of them were returning to the waves, but most were torn apart by Tezcat’s magic. By now, perhaps a quarter of the mages lay motionless.

Sarscha pushed forward, jabbing her spear at one of the creatures, and then finding an opening drove the point home between what she supposed were its ribs, though it had an arm with a claw at the end sticking out of them. She saw the metal of the spearpoint inhale a dark wash of something, and the creature fell to pieces.

‡

Despite their drive against the revenants, Ralan and Sarscha leading the counterattack, and Tezcat’s magic backing them up, the nightmares still dogged their rear, and the revenants had begun to push back. It wasn’t as though they felt fear like the living did. Their own personal safety was of no concern.

Ralan had paused, allowing the cohorts to forge ahead, his spear whipping in front of Sarscha’s chest, to stop her going any further. ‘What are you doing?’ she yelled at him. ‘We need to press our advantage!’

He shook his head and with his other arm, pointed at the virals at the front. On instinct, she shot a glance to where Tezcat was and fear thumped loud in her ears.

The viral girl was undergoing some sort of transformation, her body changing, enlarging.

‘We need to retreat,’ Ralan shouted in her ear, ‘right now!’

Sarscha was reluctant, however. She knew Threadfin could change into another form, a huge beast with a long tail and broad wings. Maybe this was a good thing ... but the look in Ralan’s eyes when she glanced at him convinced her otherwise. Something had gone terribly wrong.

She began to shout orders, the officers nearest her repeating them at the top of their lungs.

The front lines contracted as the soldiers attempted to disengage and obey, but it proved too late.

Numerous undead dragons loomed into view from where the viral mages had stood, and unfortunately, their attention was not on the revenants.

The great beasts lunged with their jaws and teeth, rending limbs and heads from the bodies of soldiers. Their massive spiked tails hammered into the ranks with heavy blows, crumpling armour, breaking bones. Scores of greencloaks perished in seconds, and to make matters worse the nightmares and revenants had rallied, reclaiming ground as they forged into the now retreating legions.

Ralan had grabbed Sarscha by the arm, hauling her back, when they both ducked beneath a cold wind. A particularly large dragon, black as night with pale eyes and horns, had passed over their heads and was wheeling above the battle. Then it dove into the milling ranks of soldiers, heedless of spears. Bodies flew in all directions from the thunderous impact. She knew it was Tezcat Licolo, or what used to be her.

‘There’s no way out,’ Sarscha shouted.

‘I know,’ Ralan cried, as he turned this way and that seeking some escape. They had lost the battle and the docks had fallen. They needed to retreat to the city and try to regroup. She almost laughed. There was no way to fight back, not now. Their main defence, their only defence if she was honest, had been the mages who had somehow been weaponised against them. She had never seen it coming.

Ralan shouted, pointing, and Sarscha followed him, screaming for her soldiers to retreat. Some obeyed, but most just stood and died, helpless before the might of their enemies.

Sarscha didn’t feel terror, although she was afraid, a perfectly normal feeling considering the circumstances. What she really felt was humiliation at how quickly it had all fallen apart, and she felt helpless. These weren’t feelings she was accustomed to.

Into the narrow streets leading from the docks, they fled as the largest of the dragons beat its wings overhead. They ran as fast as they could, the surviving soldiers fighting a useless rearguard action. One glance backward as they headed into the city told her their rearguard had broken apart. Men and women simply fled for their lives.

Revenants and nightmares they could face, if not understand, but undead dragons were something else entirely.