Chapter 172: Methodical

The light of dawn rose over Sardanal’s last refuge and Thunder Lord Sai was furious. The curs had food now, food and weapons. And some reinforcements, if the incoherent screeching from the spider fuckers was any indication. The only thing he could agree on with his ‘peers’ was that they had to strike now before the templars put some meat back on their bones. The assembled forces of the Dark Gods made their way up the cliff, whatever troops had answered the call anyway. Some days it was like herding beastlings.

 

Gomogog’s flesh abominations led the way, lumbering titans of writhing meat with pits where their mouths ought to be. Scabs and scars marked where fire and arrows had gnawed at their monstrous forms to little effect. So close to him, they stank horribly. Theirs was a rotten smell mixed with delicate flowers that made the mix deeply revolting. Then spiders and hybrids under Octas followed with those nasty little assassins she had tossing spindles at mages. He shivered. They were allied in the cause of showing the deeply flawed nature of society, the hypocrisy and lies it relied on to maintain some people at the top but beyond that… uneasy was their alliance indeed.

 

Efestar’s troops were by far the least numerous, mostly because the God of Scorn preferred to act from the shadows. Veiled archers, quiet assassins, they snuck in the wake of larger threats with poison-tipped arrows.

 

Sai frowned. There was something weird going on with the dark god. His magic was acting… erratic, but it was not for man to question the divine. Instead, he focused his attention on the mess of a column climbing up the desolate slope towards the hated walls where so many of his minions had perished.

 

This place used to be lush and green. It was said that Sardanal’s Cradle never truly knew winter, that there were always flowers blooming but looking at it now, it was hard to believe. When Sai had landed, the cultists occupied only the forest. They had later breached the defenses of the servants of the light near the central valley, then devoured their way up the island from there. Many of Octas’ hybrids were corpses of villagers and soldiers, attached to the bodies of her infamous spiders through dark sorcery. They moved over the cracked earth, the fallen houses and the burnt orchards like locusts. Not a pleasant sight but war never was. Those scorched fields were all that remained when fat lords rested on their laurels and Sardanal was no different.

 

A skittering announced the coming of Many-Legs, Octas’ champion. Whatever he had started as was long gone. Now all that remained was a patchwork of shells covered in appendages: claws, arms, paws, legs, tendrils, tentacles, stingers, anything and everything that struck its fancy. A mental image formed in Sai’s head. Few of Octas’ fiercest champions kept the ability to speak.

 

Moving up.

 

Now.

 

Sai shivered again when the message clawed at his mind in all its alien horror. The house-sized abomination scurried forward with deceptive speed. From his position at the back, Sai could see the verdant mana of Sardanal covering the ramparts and the defenders behind, filling them with vitality. It was the only thing that kept them standing and it wouldn’t last. The light gods always failed their followers at the most critical moment.

 

Sai the Thunder Lord was standing there with the fetid wind at his back amid the chittering of advancing hybrids when something strange moved in his mana sight. Threads expanded and contracted to the side. He heard a meaty sound. Something sprayed his war mask. He touched the liquid with a gloved finger. Red. Thick. Familiar. Blood, not his.

 

To his side, the mass of flesh walkers stumbled. Long gashes dripping putrid ichor and atrophied organs covered their unholy forms. The ones that held the center collapsed and didn’t rise again. Space seemed to shiver where they once stood.

 

“What?”

 

What just happened? His dark gray robes were soaked, though their enchantments remained intact. The sneak attack surprised him so much he checked himself for wounds but found none. The Cowl of Efestar should still be hiding his presence. Was this the reinforcement he should be concerned with? He turned to Many Legs by force of habit but of course, the brainless abomination was already rushing towards the fortifications with a low hiss of rage tinted with glee. What kind of spell could do this? There had been no warnings, no colors marring the canvas of the world. Colorless mana? Unlikely. Sai watched the assault progress with trepidation. He had to learn, then he could strike.

 

At first, everything proceeded as planned. The dark mass of the spiders and surviving flesh walkers surged through a cloud of ash. The rare surviving templar archers and his own assassins exchanged the few remaining arrows on the island, then a group of shelled spiders disappeared. This time, Sai saw it happen. The packed formation was racing up, ignoring the few pitiful fire spells cast at them by the rare surviving enemy mages and then they were just… gone? Cut to ribbons by… something. A colorless construct that turned flesh to slender streamers. It reminded him of a report he’d read a long time ago. His eidetic memory searched for the exact recollection.

 

A prince tortured for his crime against a city that had turned its back on him and his friends. A recruit ripe for collection, but he had not been bitter enough, apparently? His name was Prince Sidjin. Could it be the same man? What was he doing here anyway? This was a Viziman battlefield. Even he, as a champion of the Shadow Islands, was but a guest on this ancient battleground.

 

Sidjin was a… siege defense specialist.

 

Not. Good.

 

“Spread out,” he ordered, his pitch lowered by the war mask. “Do not stand next to groups of warriors.”

 

A few assassins stopped hiding behind packs of spiders. Sai cursed. Many-Legs would not listen to him. He had to take off despite the risk. His shoulder still lanced from a lucky arrow. With a breath, he cleared his thoughts. Gray mana spooled from his core to extend all around him. His superior mind handled two spells at once, one that would cover his body in a thick layer of gray mana infused with the meaning of avoidance, the other in a powerful construct that would carry him up. He soared into the air in a burst of mana.

 

The sky was his.

 

It never got old, feeling all that gray mana around him, even in the bleakest of moments. A grin curved his lips as he watched the town become smaller under him. As before, verdant mana blocked his sight and muddied the mana signatures. He would have to make do with what he had.

 

The chittering carpet of creatures kept advancing. Strange, transparent constructs of immense complexity bloomed among their most dangerous hybrids to tear them limb from limb. After the fourth such slaughter, even Many-Legs perceived the danger. The insane champion screeched and the assault scattered, but it was already far too late. What had started as a relatively organized assault had devolved into a mad dash for the walls, the relatively tight pockets of the dark gods’ forces dispersing into a chaotic mess. It was not the end of the magical assaults. Invisible javelins tore through flesh walkers one by one, saturating their large forms until even their regeneration couldn’t keep up. They fell.

 

A part of Sai felt relief at the death of those abominations. The rest of him knew this was a problem, one he had to solve personally.

 

Suddenly, a figure in a heavy cloak appeared on the battlements, hands clutching a large staff. His head was covered by a cowl. He waved his hands around until a large fireball formed, then he tossed it at the approaching spiders.

 

It was rather obviously bait, one his assassins did not take. Unfortunately, the stinger-spitting spiders did. A thick spike clanged on the form’s body, revealing the extremely thick armor underneath. Sai recognized Kal the Mountain, a champion of Neriad. It was so obvious! And there was a diagnostic spell and… there was a short-range blast taking out one, then two of the rare and valuable spiders from their hiding place. Sai cursed under his breath. The diagnostic spell came from… there, inside a squad of heavily armored guards. He had to time his assault well. The Cowl of Efestar would only hide him until he attacked. then he would be a very valuable flying gray mage in bow range.

 

He merely needed some patience.

 

The assault began. Spiders crawled up the wall. Animalistic ones jumped the defenders while others spat poisonous gobs and nets, but where the servants of the dark gods had been on the cusp of victory before, now they were struggling. The defenders were haler, their weapons repaired, their arms strong and kept energetic through the green mana constantly renewing them. Colorless mana had dispersed the deadlier groups so that the attackers reached the crenelations piecemeal rather than as a united force and it made a world of difference. The hybrids swung in vain at shield walls before being pierced by spears. It was obvious the assault would fail but perhaps Many-Legs could still salvage some sort of gain. The abomination scaled the wall with ponderous grace, as unstoppable as fate itself. He attacked the troops on the tower with rabid frenzy. His appendages wailed on the defenders with rage. Sai saw a body tossed over the battlements. The shield wall crumbled, then corpses crashed to the courtyard beyond. It stopped as soon as Denerim arrived, that naive fool.

 

The bearded warrior fought Many Legs conservatively. He cut the legs as they attacked, taking few risks. It was like watching a gardener prune a tenacious plant while his apprentice, the Hallurian defector, hovered at the edge, ready to move in and attack Many-Legs’ true body. Another stalemate. Idiots.

 

The Fallen Prince ought to act soon. Sai knew it. Many-Legs was too tempting a target, and as expected, another transparent spell emerged from the hazy mist of Sardanal’s protection. A thread-thin construct. It whistled through the air before embedding itself deeply into Many-Legs’ flank.

 

The damn creature screeched. The Prince must have hit something important.

 

That also meant he was focused on offense.

 

Carefully, Sai wove his personal hex. The sky rumbled above when he infused the air around him with the meaning of potential. Pride filled his chest. He was one of the few casters in history capable of using it.

 

Potential crystallized in front of him, then he guided the deficit down towards the prince. He would not feel it. How could he? Potential was not mana. It couldn’t be felt through normal means, only through the tingle on one’s skin and the coppery taste on one’s tongue. Sai relished that special moment when he was alone, hidden from view, away from the vicissitudes of the fight against oppression. There was only him, the gray mana flowing from his core, and the complex array hanging in the air before him. He was the storm and he could not be touched. Power coursed through him. The power to liberate. The power to be free and to scorn the world itself.

 

“Storm.”

 

A massive bolt crossed the sky, landing among the soldiers in a cataclysmic first strike. The blinding flash faded to reveal white lines coursing through the cracked pavement over bubbling stone and the shaking form of a couple of guards. Shaking, but not dying. Sai reacted immediately by moving aside but Sidjin did not counter immediately. Sai’s opponent stood next to an enchanted metal rod he’d raised from below at the last moment. Even the excess energy had dissipated on a transparent shield with a few templars catching stray energy. As Sai dodged, Sidjin had been repairing his defense rather than countering. A patient opponent.

 

For a second, the two took the measure of each other. Sidjin, a tan Glastian with a scar on his cheek and deep brown eyes looking mournfully upwards, curly hair hidden under his cloak. Sai, the Thunder Lord, face hidden behind a mask, body covered in a protective gray robe. A fallen prince and the apostle of a dark god. Two experienced combatants. Two archmages.

 

Then the spells flew.

 

Sidjin opened with a salvo of skewering transparent spears Sai had to dodge without seeing. Only his trained perception and the almost imperceptible trail of the spells gave him any sort of warning, and he used his speed and flexibility to great effect in dodging them. Meanwhile, gray mana spells and a smaller thunderbolt fell upon impenetrable defenses, the prince’s fortress an array of complex hexes designed to counter Sai specifically. Efestar’s champion tried fire and his own colorless attacks to destabilize Sidjin but it was clear the archmage was a master of defense at the top of his art. Sai needed options. He needed the unpredictable.

 

“Efestar, bless my aim.”

 

The dark green energy of scorn fused in his fist like acid. Scorn clouded Sai’s mind. Had to crush. Had to take revenge, but Sai prevailed over the dark god’s domain. It was not his first divine spell.

 

Once again, the energies stuttered, threatening to waste Sai’s efforts. He regained control at the last moment then dodged a gray spell cleverly hidden behind a transparent barrier. Sidjin was canny.

 

A baleful spear surged towards Sidjin. This one wasn’t gray mana but hatred made manifest. Sai followed the spell’s trajectory with anticipation, but Sardanal’s light surged forth and for an instant, it was as if a bejeweled hand swatted the spell aside.

 

“Dammit.”

 

An arrow flew by. His shield pushed it away but below, the situation was getting worse. The walls held strong despite the forces thrown at them. Spider corpses formed a small embankment in front of the walls. Many-Legs was reeling from several wounds. Sai’s time was running out.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

 

And then something attracted his attention. It didn’t come from within the walls but from the harbor, the natural one at the western tip of the city. The one where his ship was waiting for him.

 

“No. No!”

 

Sai flew as fast as he could.

 

***

 

The prisoner gave himself two more days of life, maybe less. He licked his parched lips and thanked Emeric for having him be captured during winter, at least. Sometimes, he could suck on snow when the others were not looking. The other prisoners didn’t trust him. Wretched things, all of them. Some were surviving villagers from the fallen villages, thin and dying but still occasionally fed. Fodder for some ritual, no doubt. Others had been carried over the sea from the Shadow Lands by slavers eager to sell to those who didn’t value gold. The slavers had learned that Octas hated every form of civilization, even the most cruel ones. They were also ritual fodder. Maybe a gaze, maybe something the savage bitch would cook up. The prisoner didn’t care. His only hope was to be executed as an example because he was too much of a coward to kill himself by other means.

 

A woman stared at him from the other cage. She was a lower caste thing from the mainland, also a coward, but one made meek from birth. She was hopeless. When their eyes met, she turned away.

 

The prisoner was bored. Why was dying so very tedious? He almost wanted the cultists to get to it. Instead, the cowled idiots were lowering crates from one of the many small ships who’d made the trip from the homeland or Vizim to carry men and supplies for the great work. Turned out that it took a lot of flesh to keep their ravenous allies going. In the bay, a makeshift port had assembled itself to welcome those blasphemous shipments. The prisoner watched a man roll a barrel up the rickety pier towards one of the warehouses. Actually, they were improved fishing shacks but that still made them one of the few remaining intact structures outside of the walls. The spider bitch was thorough.

 

As for the flesh father…

 

The prisoner turned to the nearest flesh tree, one of the most active on the island. It was an unholy meat construct capable of producing cursed fruits that sustained the flesh walkers. Towering over the burnt husks of real vegetation, they only took the vague shape of a real trunk, a grotesque parody of life. They smelled weird as well, a strange mix of sourness and floral notes. Eminently disturbing. The prisoner averted his gaze. He didn’t want to find another eye looking at him. Again.

 

“Careful with those, they contain iron bars, you dimwit,” the quartermaster screamed at a fumbling cultist.

 

“Boss, do you hear that?”

 

“Hear what?”

 

But the prisoner heard, and soon, so did the quartermaster, and then so did everyone. The cultist looked up at the ubiquitous gray sky with incomprehension. It was… a screech?

 

Light.

 

Heat.

 

Sound.

 

The prisoner jerked back against the cage, feeling it bite against his thin chest. He took a deep breath. His ears popped. Where there was once a small ship before him, now there was only an expanding ball of fire sending scorched debris falling like rain. The man pushing a barrel had died. The pier was a flaming wreck. On the other ships, men and women panicked. Some jumped into the water while others pulled on rope. Others still looked up to the sky to find what was attacking them. The prisoner did it as well. He had nothing better to do. There was a sort of liberating feeling to being helpless in the face of death. No need to struggle.

 

A flash of white scales. A serpentine shape. Gray mana blurring with speed as the creature attacking them made a second pass and another ship was annihilated. Corpses were tossed by the explosion, cloaks burning. They were dead before they hit the water.

 

“Neriad protect us,” someone whispered in the next cage. “It’s a dragon.”

 

It was, in fact, a dragon. The prisoner stared uncomprehendingly at the shape of archers and a cultist mage attempting to stop the flying calamity, but their target was a blur of spells. The earth buckled under them without a circle appearing or symbols being used. Only the Thunder Lord could possibly slow that beast down, curse that backstabbing cur. Why was there a damn dragon here, of all places?

 

And why was there a foreign woman as well?

 

The prisoner blinked. Next to him, a pale-skinned caster carved circles and symbols into the suddenly flattened ground. She was tall, with a black armored robe and a strange, misshapen shield covered in heraldry. A silver circlet adorned her helmet. He reassessed her as a leader of some sort as well as a caster. Her hair was colored strangely. A Paramese, for sure. Or a savage from the Empire of Dawn. No, she was no thrall. He frowned.

 

[Foe of Efestar, Ascender, Fourth step of a well-rounded black war caster path. Elemental. LETHAL. Peerless war caster. Born for magic. Empress of New Harrak. Monster Slayer… ]

 

So many… what? He’d never heard of her! Harrak? Wasn’t the place destroyed? And she was an enemy of Efestar? Elemental? What was she doing here all calm and — but wait. That was his chance.

 

“Lady? Lady? The gate? Please?”

 

His voice revived the spark of hope in the chests of the other wretches. They crammed themselves against their cages with emaciated limbs grasping at her, filthy nails clawing the air for the salvation she represented, but she didn’t budge. With methodical speed, the witch kept drawing an increasingly complex array on the ground. The prisoner knew enough about rituals to realize this one was excessively complex despite the… rather artistic arrangement. She was also drawing several at once. It was something only the best casters could do. The prisoner didn’t know what an elemental archmage was but it was clearly one of the light gods’ champions. Fresh off the boat then? Maybe he still had a chance.

 

“Lady, we can be of help.”

 

She didn’t reply. The array completed, then she fed power into the construct.

 

There was so much mana here the prisoner could feel it press against his skin. The air shimmered, then the world inexplicably split open, smoothly, like a window, and beyond that was a courtyard covered in flowers with mossy, damaged walls, and warriors in heavy armor. Quite a few of them.

 

“Go. Go!”