Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cast No Shadow

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Chapter where Artemus dies - MWS President material.

You’ve got to move!

Isabelle heard the words, but there was no time to conceive what they meant.

The head of the lance steamed where the winged creature’s blood touched it. The dark fiend was gone, no sign of it left up here but the deep gouge of its claw-marks in stone, and there was a heartbeat of breathing room – enough for her to spin in the other direction and thrust.

She had only half-known that she would hit something when she did—

She didn’t expect the three-headed abomination that would be snarling at her.

It was a crazy mess of limbs and streaming, poisonous viscera; and taller even than any of its brethren, as if its bones had welded together as soon as the three winged creatures touched.

She held it back with all her strength, then began to gain ground—

Somehow, even over its shrieking, she could hear its claws screeching deep grooves in the wall-top with every step it lost. But there was one blessing: Its faces were now more than two feet over the top of her head. Try as it might, it couldn’t quite sink its fangs into her.

Jace was still firing, still shouting, his voice becoming more anguished.

A strange calm stole over Isabelle.

If there’s something I’m supposed to do, she thought, then please.

Frustrated at last, the horror started to punch at her with its mangle of a half-dozen arms—

Whatever it is ...

She could feel the blows raining down on her, beating her shoulders bloody—

I’m ready.

Within seconds, her numb, exhausted arms would fail; the lance would fall.

And her with it—

Oh. I see.

Isabelle released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She felt the reassuring presence of something new that she had always known: A magnificent warmth draped over her, protecting her muscles from the cold that precedes death.

The dual blades of her lance exploded into flame.

She knew quickly it was no natural fire: It curled into the air in tiny waves and swirled around the weapon’s fearsome head like a living wreath that turned now red, now yellow, now white. The winged creatures knew it, too: They took one look at it and screamed.

First, the two that could see her – then those near them – then more and more.

A sound from the depths of hell.

Their advance was halted for a few pale, precious instants. With the flames glittering on her sweat-soaked face, Isabelle pounced on them; a roar tore forth from her lungs with more air than she dreamed she had. The beast closest her ignited, its ribs giving way like kindling.

She spun in a blazing arc and slashed off the burning head of the one creeping at her back—

Then she took stock of what was below and jumped, her braid streaming behind her until—

She landed along the inner wall on an outcropping of stone, a pedestal where griffon statues were meant to sit. But there was no such statue there now, only Isabelle herself; and she made one leap and another with the pole to guide and balance her.

Until, at last – without ever lowering her weapon – she landed in a crouch beside Jace.

“Isabelle ...”

Jace’s voice was ragged with raw emotion: Love, awe, fear—

And just enough what the hell? to know that it was still him.

In his sight, Isabelle was cloaked in flame; her weapon alight with divine judgment.

Just like it was on that night, in that terrible place.

“Jaden,” Isabelle said by way of answer. Giving Jace a quick once-over, she snapped off some bolt belts and began tossing them over. He took them in numb, unresisting hands at first before he fully understood. “At least, I think ... this is what she was trying to tell me.”

She was no “Fallen Angel.” She was just ... an angel.

“Mmm ...” Jace occupied himself with the wordless, delicate ballet of replacing his belts. The ones that were expended – almost all of his own – he simply dropped to the ground. “We’re not trained or supplied to be in a siege, Iz. We’re going to run out of munitions.”

“I know,” she said, but she was looking down the road—

“We have to regroup with the others,” Jace said firmly. “Before ...”

His thought was cut off by the renewed shrieking of the winged creatures.

“They forgot already?” Jace asked, looking meaningfully to the still-fiery lance.

“I won’t let them forget,” Isabelle said, allowing herself a small smile.

Jace could’ve sworn that it made her halo burn brighter.

The leathery rustle of wings, the shift of shadows, told them more would be on them in seconds. The air had begun to smell of blood, and the struggles of Sandia’s defenders were one long, lingering howl of defiance and despair; the air pregnant with copper and a terrible wetness.

The Outriders ran.

***

The Blades had an uncanny genius, Relic had to admit. In their own way.

It took the relative leisure of a pitched battle, not a brutal melee, for him to finally comprehend where their enemy was weak. Time and again, the Outriders’ allies drew minotaurs into traps, dousing them with flaming oil and closing off entire boulevards in gouts of flame.

When the hooded figures took to alleys and byways – to escape from rooftop snipers or their own beasts driven mad by the encroaching fire – they were sure to be shredded to bits by horrific barricades of sharpened metal. Every approach was lined with jagged glass.

Those who strayed too near the bulwarks had their flesh sluiced off in a seething wave of wax.

In the midst of all this, Cedwyn and Relic had worked together with the coordination and clarity of brothers-in-arms. Each knew the other’s mind and capabilities; each knew how to set up and support the other. Each knew the other man’s weaknesses, too.

The Outriders had fallen back slowly toward the central pavilion with the sheriff’s statue—

Covering Blades when they were surrounded or pulled out of position; leaving heaps of bodies in their wake at every turn. From their vantage point atop what used to be city hall, they saw that the enemy’s forward press was in disarray. There are too many bodies to climb over.

Relic checked instinctively – or perhaps compulsively – on his dwindling ammo.

He looked over to Cedwyn and blew out a long, thoughtful breath.

More air than he thought he had.

“I’m running pretty short on bolts. Think that’s all of them?”

The words were no sooner spoken than Cedwyn’s attention snapped up—

To where the sky pulsated with an unrelieved wall of suppurating black flesh. Winged creatures were arriving in such numbers that they were wingtip to wingtip, blotting out the stars in the sky. Now and then, two or three or even more would collide and simply meld together.

“Me and my big mouth,” said Relic, his hands reloading even as he stared up.

“What in the god damn hell are those ... things?”

Two thoughts occupied Relic’s consciousness back-to-back with lightning speed:

That there was something, anything, Cedwyn did not recognize was truly Bad.

And, as they turned and scuttled down the ropes Foy’s men had put in place:

I know what they are.

It was all Relic could do to keep his hands from trembling as he worked his way down the rope. Fear gripped him, threatening to let him slip and scald the flesh from his palms. He imagined falling, and that made him stop entirely as he swayed side to side.

Relic, focus!

At first, Relic was sure it had come from Cedwyn, so loud and insistent was the voice.

He knew full well that these were the horrors he longed to leave behind in Westwood.

Relic’s feet hit the ground and he ran at a crouch to join Cedwyn, who had scouted ahead far enough to be sure they weren’t pushing straight into an ambush. Cedwyn waved him on and the relief Relic felt rode overtop a stew of embarrassment and horror.

Those are the Mourning Men of Westwood, Relic thought. The winged creatures. They’re real!

“Yes. But you knew that.”

Relic’s head whipped around as if the Devil was on his tail. No matter where he looked, though, there was no sign of anyone else: Just Cedwyn himself. His face was blank, but his eyes burned.

I’ve fallen behind again, Relic thought as he saw the look in the other’s eyes—

It felt like he would melt away out of shame before the enemy had the chance to kill him.

A cry went up: Long, intense, horrid, and shrill. It was the hunting-cry of a hundred ravenous predators, at least, giving way to the unthinkable grinding of meat and tearing of human flesh. It was like a symphony, a chorus of the damned; the woodwind of men dying everywhere.

The staccato of death rattles—

And now a new sound pounded in his ears, above even his own heart:

The percussive thump of winged creatures dropping from the sky.

“We’ll retreat to the pavilion,” Cedwyn said. Relic was shoulder to shoulder with him at last, and their eyes met in earnest for the first time: Relic’s pallid face, like a ghost floating in the red-tinged gloom, was enough to shake even Cedwyn. “Stay with me, bro. We can do this.”

“I ...”

I know, Relic had wanted to say, but the words weren’t in him.

They fled at a full sprint toward the statue. The shifting battle around them was witnessed only in half-snatches of movement; flaming arrows soaring high overhead; whole groups of men snuffed out in final acts of valiant desperation; their voices joined in one long wail of despair.

Better they should die than get caught, Relic thought.

He and Cedwyn were steps from the central pavilion and the sheriff’s statue – one of the few places in all Sandia still lit fully by the crystals strewn about – when they nearly ran headlong into a member of Foy’s gang fleeing the other way.

Quick as a flash, Cedwyn stepped between Relic and the bandit, his hand shooting out to brace the latter. One step more and they would have fallen into the street together. Bloodshot, horror-stricken eyes rolled to Cedwyn, then Relic, as the man caught his breath.

Under caked blood and bile, they almost didn’t recognize Brayden.

“How many with you?” Cedwyn asked.

“None,” Brayden bit off. “All dead.” He wavered, and Cedwyn moved closer to take his shoulders with both hands; but it didn’t help at all, and Brayden slid, in a stupor, to the road. He sat for seconds that seemed endless as Relic and Cedwyn looked at one another.

Do we help him or leave him?

Neither had the answer, and neither had time to think of it before Brayden spoke again.

His voice was calm and measured: “Do either of you gentlemen carry a lighter?”

Cedwyn’s eyebrow quirked. He started to pat down his cloak, pouches, and pockets.

“I have a match,” he said, gamely handing it down to Brayden.

“Thank ye,” said Brayden, struck the match on the cobblestones, and lit his battered cigar.

He took a puff ... and though he didn’t say anything, the sound he made was unmistakable:

Finally.

There he sat in the dust of the road, puffing and simply ... waiting.

There was only one sight that could have roused them at that moment.

And there it appeared before them: Jace Dabriel and Isabelle Talabray working their way up the road with fire and fury, the latter bathed in illumination like the sun that made the winged creatures avert their eyeless heads and slither out of her sight.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” huffed Brayden.

“Not today,” Cedwyn countered.

They ran the last of the way and met, at last, under the steely eyes of the old sheriff. Instantly, the four Outriders took formation back to back; Brayden was shoulder to shoulder with Jace. The bandit was – if not restored – more lively than they could have dreamed.

He leaned over to look at Isabelle, doffed an imaginary hat, and said: “Glowin’ wit’ beauty.”

Isabelle nodded. There was something predatory about her smile, but a smile it certainly was.

“As ever,” she said.

“What do we do now, fearless leader?” Cedwyn asked Jace.

“Just one thing,” Jace said, knee bending to steady his stance. “Our best.”

Cedwyn nodded. As they prepared for their last stand, he whispered: “Inveniam viam.”

One by one, the other Outriders responded in kind – and even Brayden, after a delay.

A hooded figure, back bowed under the weight of some horrid bundle, came shuffling up the road toward them. Jace squinted, stretched his arm, and prepared to squeeze off the first shot of a salvo. The first tremor of an avalanche – one that would only end when they did.

He didn’t expect the figure to straighten and look him right in the eye.

“Inveniam viam, you god damn ungrateful punks,” said Gabriel Foy.

***

Foy paused only long enough to lay Irick’s unconscious body gently on the ground.

A spool of thick rope was coiled over his forearm, which he dumped nearby as well.

Then he strode up to Jace and began to strike him on the chest in time with his words – emphasis so strong as to raise a welt right then and there. “I thought I told you four morons to get the hell out of Sandia.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he turned to look at them all. “Where’s Jaden?”

“Safe,” Isabelle said – and though she didn’t know how she knew, she was sure.

Silently, Jace wiped off his cheek with the back of his hand.

“God damn better be,” said Foy. He turned to face Relic, who shrank back a little. “All right, bird mom, I need your help. So, shut your mouth – both of ‘em – and follow my lead, got it?”

“Yes, sir!” Relic squeaked, coming to rigid attention. Foy turned his attention next to Cedwyn.

“Same goes for you, Wolfwood. Irick should have been here to help me with this, but I guess he’s just as stupid as the rest of you egotistical little bastards. He thought he could fight ...” Foy rolled his head sideways to indicate the swarm. “That. Even if he’d been right,” he continued, almost sputtering the words, “even if you’d been right, what good do you expect to do—”

By dying here, he didn’t say; the last words came out in a frustrated, wordless hiss.

Relic looked to Cedwyn for reassurance, but the other man was already peering down. Gabriel Foy had bounced down to one knee with the speed and grace of a much younger man and was scribbling on the floor with such intensity that the others stepped aside.

“You know this one,” Foy said to Cedwyn, tossing him a piece of chalk. To Relic: “And you’ve at least read it, even though you shouldn’t. So, you should have no problem following along.”

“No, sir!” said Relic, bumbling the chalk for a second or two before catching it.

In the far corner, Brayden crouched over Irick’s form – he just looks asleep – and watched. In seconds, for seconds were all they had, every part of the pavilion floor was rife with odd runes.

“Good on ye, Fotamecus,” Foy whispered half to himself, then rose. “You two better not screw up.” To Jace and Isabelle, he added: “Cover that road. And a prayer or two wouldn’t go amiss.”

Isabelle nodded curtly; she had spent the time tying a scrap of leather to secure the lance alongside her swords. It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold for now – and no more than that was promised. She took one last look at Jace and each one knew the other’s thoughts.

With only one Outrider to cover each direction, they would be lucky to halt the onslaught for five minutes. Even then, it would take a full supply of bolts ... far more than they had left. As Foy, Relic, and Cedwyn began to burble a muted mantra, Isabelle shrugged one shoulder at Jace—

Pursed her lips in a pout that only he saw—

And prepared herself for the inevitable.

That was the last thought in her mind before the world boiled away in a storm of orange light.

***

Relic’s eyes had been closed; the only feeling in his body was the words pulsing through him and the warmth of the others’ hands on his own. In the darkness behind his eyelids, the chanting took shape as wild, leaping things of flame that fought every attempt to control them.

He was gripped by a half-forgotten, familiar sensation—

That if only he could hold on a little longer, he would finally understand.

That thought filled him with a renewed, manic energy. He thought that perhaps he was smiling; but his face was numb and he could not be sure. His body faded like footprints under the tide.

When the orange radiance came, all illusion was burned away at last.

This is the creation of the world, that the pain of division is as nothing.

He felt one last thing: Cedwyn gently squeezing his hand.

And the joy of dissolution all.

Relic did not know how much time passed before he was aware of anything more. He was alone. The delicate, perfect sphere of orange light had given away to darkness. In that darkness there was only himself: All around him, a comforting presence.

“You’re here,” Relic whispered.

I have always been with you, it responded.

Now he recognized the voice in his mind, so alike and so different from his own.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

If you bring forth what is in you, what you bring forth will save you.

Relic felt a subtle, vibrant pulse of potential stirring in the world far beneath his feet.

If you do not bring forth what is in you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.

Relic knew that he belonged here – that they all did. But where is here?

With an effort, Relic remembered himself and the battle raging on below.

The world continued on beneath his feet like reflections adrift in a murky lake. But there was no reference point, nothing to anchor him to that present: He was not even sure which body was his.

He found himself, instead, among the ravens.

They were everywhere! As numerous as the winged creatures themselves and much more sly.

There was not one inch of Sandia, inside or outside, that they did not see. There was not one spoken word, not one thought plain or hidden that they could not intuit. He drifted among them, floated as the king of their number, and they brought him to what he must see.

The gates of Sandia had fallen. But more than that—

The enemy was not just waiting; it was alive with purpose and moving fast. Two whole wagons – how had they concealed those wagons? – were trundling the last few feet to a new position. Around them, cloaked magi began their fearful work right at the foot of the outer wall.

Show me Valith, Relic thought.

And he was there: In the clarity of Relic’s dream, Valith was no more human than the winged creatures. He was a twisting maelstrom of wrath and spite, his ill-fitting flesh only a talisman standing in for something far worse. Relic could only barely conceive of its outlines.

Where Valith’s attention turned, buildings were blown flat in the blink of an eye.

It was not true to say that men stood before him; they were torn asunder as by a tornado.

And through it all, he laughed and laughed and laughed—

Then, the alchemist stopped. Turned toward Relic. And stared.

Head perked sideways like a curious dog, he mouthed: How?

Relic let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

I remember.

When he came to himself again, his eyes opened slowly: Centered in his misty gaze was Cedwyn. Relic waved frantically to him and the man sometimes called Wolfwood bent close.

“You bastard,” Relic whispered in his ear.

A little abashed smile crept onto Cedwyn’s lips, and he would surely have said more—

But that was the moment the great twisting column of sunstone-light rose from the spot where Gabriel Foy had been standing. In a commanding, noble voice, the voice of passing centuries, the old Outrider intoned: “It is done.” And then: “Come and see.”

Relic turned to the side and seized Brayden by the shoulders.

“Find as many men as you can and get back to the gate,” the Outrider told him. “Move quietly if possible, but be ready to fight.” As Brayden turned, Relic continued: “No! Not that way – use the side road. Follow the ravens.” Now, the older man’s mouth was wide with shock. “Go!”

Relic was uncomfortably aware of the unearthly echo that had been in his voice.

But no one else was looking at him.

Whorls of red-orange light swirled up in great galloping arcs from the pyre Gabriel Foy’s voice emanated from. They passed harmlessly across and over the roof of the pavilion and spread out once they hit the open sky – a million tiny, shimmering missiles.

Was this the secret? A way to strike the whole enemy horde where they stood?

“No ...” Cedwyn said to himself. “I can’t believe it!”

Before their wondering eyes, banners of orange light streamed down into the waiting griffon statues. Their touch was as delicate as lace, tracing across each stone feather with the care shown by the artisans who forged these artifacts long, long ago.

The light pooled and blazed in the eyes of one statue—

And then those eyes opened.

Stripes of light locked together in a brilliant, beautiful lattice, enshrouding each griffon in a cocoon of noon-light. The cocoons swirled; the shapes there, half-seen, grew and grew and grew.

The light was coming off Gabriel Foy in strips, rising to meet its destiny all over Sandia.

In homes and shops, on curbs and street-side poles, beside the wells and along the walls: Everywhere, everywhere, the effect was the same. Sandia’s protectors were coming to life – and now, a griffon thrice as big as a horse bent its titanic beak low into the pavilion to regard Foy.

The light had dissipated. Gabriel Foy stood before an avian eye as tall as him and far wider. Foy’s arms were outstretched, a sunstone balanced in both palms. This he returned to his cloak.

The griffon’s pupil, the color of molten bronze, narrowed on him as he rested a hand on his hip and looked back at it. The Outriders scrambled aside as a red-gold paw like furry foothills came to rest inside the pavilion and the beak opened to let out a high, creaky squawk.

Gabriel Foy reached out to stroke its feathery head, but his voice remained all trumpet-brass.

“By the Illuminate and the Paladins of the Sun, go forth and do the duty that lies before you.”

The griffon drew back in what could almost be a nod, crying out as it lifted its monumental head out of the pavilion and into the open air. Its call was answered: Dozens leapt one by one into the sky. Their bodies were bulwarks of corded muscle, their wings as broad and bright as heaven.

“Guardians,” Isabelle sighed, and she looked to Gabriel. When he nodded, she took two steps out of cover to look up at these majestic legions. Countless winged creatures were smashed against their wings before any of the birds even unsheathed their claws.

Griffon roars resounded across Sandia and echoed through the desert.

Relic clenched his fists and let out a wild whoop! as, with the sweep of one mighty paw, a lion-bird sliced asunder three winged creatures, leaving nothing but a hail of sinew and bone in its wake. It was a miracle, a sight he never dreamed he’d see and a relief he would never forget.

The Outrider witnessed three demons soar beneath a griffon and turn on a dime to lunge at its underbelly. All three were caught in its powerful back legs and butchered with a snick-snack of claws. The hideous sound of the winged creatures was silenced at last as they fell, slaughtered.

Jace at last dared to look full-on at Gabriel Foy; seized the elder by a still-warm shoulder.

“How long?” Jace asked.

“A few minutes at best,” Foy answered. “Even less if he gets involved. Go!”

Jace nodded, steadied his cap with one hand, and turned to regard the others.

“You heard the man,” he said. “Let’s get the horses, get Jaden, and get gone.”

With a nod, they drew together in a diamond formation. Jace looked to Isabelle, a silent question in his eyes, and she nodded, taking point. Not far, she mouthed; when she looked around, she felt Jaden’s presence like a beacon. A flaming arrow urging them forward.

She had taken the first step toward it when the town hall – the grandest building within their sight – was obliterated in a vortex of wind and fire. The blast was so massive that they had to grip the base of the sheriff’s statue to ride out the shockwave. The ground groaned and heaved, leaving the pavilion a lone island of stability bobbing on the petrified waves of a stone sea.

Blue-grey smoke poured from the crater with the force of a volcano.

A comet – the other scourge of Westwood – had fallen right in their midst.

How very rude. Are you leaving so soon without saying goodbye?

At once, the Outriders focused on a silhouette just visible within the coiling columns of smoke. A hooded form stood with head slightly bowed – now all concealed by the wafting, noxious patchwork, now revealed again. But there was no doubt who it was.

The embers of the blazing fire outlined a grin as cruel as an assassin’s dagger.

“I don’t think so,” said Valith.

***

Brayden never stopped for breath as he ran from the pavilion as fast as his legs would carry him.

Here and there, he found pockets of survivors. There was no time to explain, but they understood without knowing. Some part of that dire energy within Relican Avery’s voice had reached out and taken root in Brayden himself. His voice had not changed, but they could see it in his eyes.

With a growing column of men at his back, Brayden moved as though carried by the wind.

They took a snaking course through the devastated town of Sandia. Some ways were clogged by reeking piles of dead; some, he noted with the wisp of a smile, were still closed off by the very same spike-topped barricades he’d helped build with his own hands.

And, ever moreso, some were gutted by flame or rendered impassable by heat and smoke.

Brayden had been far from the pavilion when the first comet fell, and couldn’t have known its target. But he could feel the tremors under his feet, bright flashes pulsing through his skull with every impact. “Stay together,” he ordered his ragtag band. “We’ll meet resistance.”

Wan, smoke-stained faces gazed back – men, a dozen or so, who would never be the same.

Yet, there was something here they had to do. He knew it as well as he’d ever known anything.

Town-hall, town-hall, the ravens croaked. Brayden, who had been gauging which way to go next, snapped his attention to them. The distant roar of another comet struck his ears and ran through his legs, leaving them aching – then mercifully without any feeling at all.

Book-place, book-place, went the ravens. So-much-for-that!

Brayden braced his head in his hands. I must be going mad, he thought.

With a final look at the rest, he forged ahead on the gateway road. He didn’t know what to expect, but the sulfurous stench clinging to his skin and stinging his eyes warned him to be alert.

Old-gods-place, old-gods-place, reported the ravens.

“Oh, shut up,” Brayden said. He peeked around a corner, gestured for the others to follow, and—

Not-that-way, the ravens chided him.

He stopped short, arms wide to halt the others.

NOT-that-way, not-THAT-way, the birds repeated.

Brayden turned, backtracked, and found a new side-street that was cluttered with refuse but surprisingly undamaged besides. When he saw no ravens nearby, he decided to linger. The smell of whatever lie ahead started to itch and burn; hair came off his forearm where he scratched it.

A few feet away, the road he’d planned to go down collapsed like a sore on the earth. With nothing to sustain them, buildings on both sides slid inward and plunged into the tunnels below.

Brayden raised his eyes to the smoke-smeared sky.

“Thank you,” he murmured wearily.

Told-you-so TOLD-you-so told-you-SO ...

The rubble was still settling when Brayden signaled they must go further still, and executed a final dash that brought them within reach of the town wall. What they saw sickened them: Their comrades lashed to the inner wall with barbed wire, spread eagle and splayed apart—

But that was not the sight that sent their group scattering, each seeking separate cover.

Just outside the open gate, a pair of wagons stood side by side.

Hooded figures were arrayed around two circles in the earth that smoked like sepulchers. There were three minotaurs to guard each gathering, and the shifting light of the ritual betrayed many more in snatches of light against horns and teeth. Those others were crouched, waiting.

The hanged Blades moaned and chattered, all half-heard warnings and pleas for mercy.

Brayden narrowed his eyes on them: All were covered with great black scabs.

Just like the flesh of those damn winged things.

If he held very still, he could see the lesions writhing with something that defied words.

Don’t-look-close!

That was enough to shake Brayden out of it – and this time, he didn’t even question it.

With the accustomed silent signs, he let the others know what would follow.

Two arrows away and fall back.

Fingers together, he gestured a circular motion with the wagons at the center.

Took one long, deep breath. Then another. And another. In the trembling near-silence, he could appreciate a miracle: All of them still had arrows. He could faintly smell the saltpeter even here.

“NOW!” shouted Brayden.

A storm of flaming arrows arced across the sky, bursting from different angles but all converging with masterful precision on the same central point. All found their mark easily, and Brayden dared to hope that here, the Night of the Outriders would be re-enacted in blood.

The minotaurs raised their heads and their masters started to hiss and chatter.

One stood and thrust a scepter in the direction of the Blades—

Each arrowhead was a hive of bright sparks that dribbled in knots and snarls from the canvas roofs of the wagons. But even as Brayden turned to escape, he knew something was wrong. All of them had hit their mark, but not a single one found purchase in the fabric.

The sparks, too, spiraled and fell harmlessly – melting away into wisps of white smoke.

As realization took hold, the Blades saw an image from their nightmares: Minotaurs charging their position with massive axes and clubs held overhead. The hooded thing set its staff aside and knelt down again. The defenders of Sandia did not even have time to turn their backs.

They would die here, and the hooded foes hadn’t even been inconvenienced.

And Brayden, most of all, knew the Outriders would not save them this time.

“We make our stand,” said Brayden, and drew his knife with a defiant shout. It was a final kindness that his brothers joined him; they gathered, relying on him to lead their doomed charge.

The magi started to babble their horrible up-and-down language once more.

Then, with a deafening roar, the first of the two reagent wagons detonated.

Brayden thought at first that perhaps, against all sense, the wagons had ignited after all. But he knew in his heart this wasn’t so; and even as he drew back to whatever semblance of safety the alley offered, he squinted watery eyes against the piercing glare to see—

“Fairies above and below.”

Standing just outside the ruined gate was none other than Jaden herself. She burned all over with a glorious, terrible aura; and as she raised her hand to strike again, wings made from the most intense fires the human mind could fathom burst into view on her back.

Two minotaurs who had been close were charred in seconds—

Leaving nothing behind but a tiny heap of blackened briquettes.

Brayden smothered a sudden, startled laugh in his throat. He turned his back to Jaden and all but shoved the men near him back into the darkened lane. It was the best instinct he’d had all night.

No sooner had Brayden turned the corner than Jaden’s violet-eyed gaze came to rest on the two wagons. All of the magi were on their feet, screaming in words she understood but would not acknowledge. They flittered before her like moths before a scorching, all-consuming flame.

She raised her hands and five lances of fire shot each of the wagons straight through.

A dozen magi were taken in an explosion so hot nothing even rose from it as smoke. Their forms flickered and vanished in the heart of hell; their shadows were impressed on the wall of Sandia.

The others turned to run and found their only escape blocked by a triumphant, grinning Brayden.

Jaden drifted through the wreckage, directing relentless fire into every crack and crevice where she detected Valith’s work still intact. Brayden and his comrades fell on the dark figures and massacred them in moments; but all of this didn’t attract Jaden’s notice in the slightest.

She may as well have been alone, and that realization filled Brayden with a new kind of fear.

When the sorceress finished her work at last, she raised a gentle, beckoning hand. Melting out of the shadows came a band of men and women with sallow skin and hardened eyes. Their footfalls made no sound and their breathing was as silent as the grave.

With her beside them, they fell on the fire-mad minotaurs and slew them one by one—

All without making a single sound.

Only then did Jaden look to Brayden at last, but her smile did not soften her alien power.

“Where are the Outriders?” she asked him. A familiar echo lingered in her voice.

Brayden paused a moment to listen to the ravens.

“They are together at the pavilion. He waits for you.”

“I understand.” Then, after a moment – as if she’d nearly forgotten the words: “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Brayden, and he meant that sincerely.

Jaden and her procession filed past the remaining Blades, who looked down in awed respect as if the queen of the fairies had just passed them by.

And perhaps she has, Brayden thought.

They were still like that – frozen stiff, waiting for someone else to move first – when Brayden heard the breathy, shuddersome hiss of a new gust of magical flame. The cries of the prisoners went silent, their pleas extinguished forever.

Brayden turned to lead his men out of the alley.

Not-that-way, not-that-way, the ravens told him.

Brayden McTaggart amended his course without a word or suggestion of response. He found another way and did not take his men – his survivors – under the shadow of the inner gate again.

But it would be a long time before he stopped thinking about it.

A very long time indeed.

***

“Isn’t it wondrous?”

Valith moved with extravagant, dancelike steps – now weaving forward, now back again – as he meandered up the path to the pavilion. As he went, his boots crushed the spikes of stone his own magic had so recently raised. Then, he began crushing the spikes on purpose with his black staff.

A truly sublime grin crossed his face at the wretched sound.

That grin widened and widened until nothing could hide the sharp incisors; then widened further still. The man might have been twenty, might have been thirty; he was handsome, surely, but now the Outriders saw clearly that his was the beauty of a statue—

Without even the blush of warmth that good marble could provide.

Foy raised his chin, but never took his eyes off Valith.

“This ain’t the fight I wanted,” he told Jace. “But I’ll take it.”

With that, the old man strode to the pavilion’s edge, passing within reach of Cedwyn and Relic.

“Hold the door,” he told Cedwyn, who nodded and pulled Relic a step back by the forearm.

If Valith had noticed, he gave no sign. He swayed back and forth, brim-full of exaggerated ecstasy, a pantomime of drunkenness that saw him peer up and down and scent the air with a snort. A dozen necklaces covered in strange, secret charms rattled with every movement.

Relic recognized only a few: The signs of blood cults and fallen empires that had scourged the world and then died screaming. But there was more than that, a smoked glass vial that reminded Relic of his darkest dreams—

The instant he noticed it, Valith closed both hands around it.

“Don’t give me that look. Just because something’s not nice doesn’t mean it’s not wondrous.”

The tear stood a few steps from the edge of the pavilion now, his way barred by Gabriel Foy. The old Outrider’s heels were poised firmly on the outermost ring of chalk sigils. Jace and Isabelle were three steps behind Foy; Relic himself stood with Cedwyn at the far edge.

“You aren’t wanted here,” said Foy. “Get gone, demon.”

“I always thought it might happen this way,” said Valith. He bent down double to peer between his own fingers at the vial, ignoring Foy entirely. “Senile at last.” Then he rose up tall again – taller than ever before – and pried the vial’s cork loose with his thumb.

There arose a shrieking that ten thousand years of winged creatures could not brace a human’s heart for. Relic could not tear his eyes away from the seething blue-white of what looked like fireflies scrambling madly to escape – a burning nebula at the heart of darkness.

The tides receded still further from the benighted shore of Relic’s memory—

And he remembered himself, untold numbers of him, trapped and burning amid the branches.

The screaming grew louder by the second – but all was silence when Valith stoppered the bottle.

“I am he who rules over nature,” said the magus, his blazing eyes never leaving Gabriel Foy’s own. “I shall destroy and hate mankind. Before me, brave words turn to dust in the mouth ... hopeful thoughts wither into regret ... and the confident heart melts into naked fear.”

The Outriders felt magic heavy in the air, some magic far darker than even the comets. The disease they had faced was only a prelude to this – and there was nothing they could do but endure and stand fast, feeling the spark of Gabriel Foy’s life before them.

Hotter than ever, yet wavering—

Flesh was only a pallid shroud over what they were beginning to see clearly now.

As slow as the fade of history into myth, myth into legend, Foy gave up one step.

Valith rushed to fill it, moving sinuously – bonelessly – forward.

He began to intone again, and all the world quivered beneath the weight of his proclamation:

“If thou open’st not the gate to let me enter, I will break the door, I will wrench the lock, I will smash the door-posts, I will force the doors. I will bring up the dead to eat the living, and the dead will outnumber the living.”

Pale wisps of smoke started to rise from Gabriel Foy, but still he stood fast.

Locked in silent struggle—

The Outriders heard Foy’s skin start to seethe and sizzle, yet they could see no wound.

Foy tilted his head just so to peek sideways around the slender, haggard form of Valith.

“What’s behind you?” he asked idly.

Valith’s face contorted in disgust just before they all felt – and heard – the blast. The nightmare figure turned his back on Foy, crossing his wrists before him, and a shell like solid lightning fell over him. Jace and Isabelle scented tin, ozone, and—

Then it hit them, Jace first of all: The pungent wreak of burning reagents.

“How?” Valith asked the air, then turned on Foy. “How?” Without hesitation, he seized Foy by the throat – and without hesitation, Foy broke his iron grip, separating the outstretched arms with two fists. Valith simply let them drop, his mind far away and going ever further.

“These humans couldn’t possibly have done this,” he whispered.

“Believe it,” said Foy. “You’ve underestimated them again.”

“No ...” Valith raised his head again and began to sniff—

Jace and Isabelle broke apart, each taking a fighting stance.

“I smell her ...” Valith announced, voice shaking. “Where is she?”

Against the pain he no doubt still felt, Foy smiled. “Aces full, pal. How ‘bout you?”

Valith’s head was bowed; he had begun to breathe faster and faster, letting his too-thin form pitch forward in the effort. “She’s so close,” he told himself. “It stinks in the fires ...” Closing his eyes tight, he shifted his staff from one hand to the other, bringing it closer to Foy.

I’m going to enjoy freezing the marrow in your bones.

Valith raised the staff high and it crackled with eldritch power—

Foy stepped aside, and just as quickly, Jace moved into his place.

Staff and dagger met in a single tremendous blast of energy. Forks of lightning swirled around the two warriors and the pavilion around them seemed to breathe, the chalk sigils taking in the energy and then throbbing with it – a web of ghastly scars in time.

But Jace held no Outrider weapon; instead, it was the blade of Dorsey Trent—

It fed on the magical power around it, seeping it from Valith, who roared.

“You ...”

Valith braced both hands on his staff and pushed Jace back to face him squarely.

“I know you,” Valith said, voice roiling with new rage. “I see you squirming under that mask, you disgusting maggot.” He glanced left and right to the other Outriders, even took a moment to lock eyes with Foy again. “Don’t you feckless fools know who this is? Whom you obey?”

In Jace’s mind, he is in the tavern. Kerrick is beside him – around him, the dead and their gods.

“This petty disguise has you all fooled? This vile usurper, the blood and seed of your enemy?”

Every moment has a color, a sound, a feeling. There is no man before him; just an idea.

“I should have drowned you when I had the chance—”

With no center of mass, there is nowhere to aim. With no flesh, there is nothing to cut.

“But now ... at last, I can make up for my oversight.”

Jace Dabriel thinks of Kerrick’s face and remembers.

Valith’s breath was cold like the angry sea on his face.

“I’m right here,” said Jace Dabriel. And then—

He struck.

Valith bent his staff to the side to deflect the strike. The staff crackled with power – and so, too, did his body, for Jace could see now that they were one. With a quick turn of one knee and a flick of his blade, the Outrider bypassed his guard—

And sliced through every one of the chains around his neck.

The glass vial crashed to the ground with such speed even Valith couldn’t retrieve it. A torrent of ghost-light burst forth as it shattered, gray and blue and white swirling together as the stolen voices of Sandia found their mark and settled within the chests of those who’d lost them.

The shrieking would have brought anyone else to their knees—

But Jace felt Isabelle step into fighting formation just beside him.

In her arms she bore the flaming lance. Her Outrider cloak and leathers were resplendent with a blazing golden aura; and as she faced Valith, he raised a hand to shield his face; for massive, burning wings now burst forth from her back, making her all the brighter.

So be it, said Valith. Let their screams be yours to cherish in Hell.

He straightened and his own wings issued forth: Slashes of pure darkness, night beyond night.

Jace let his eyes go to the side for the briefest moment to find Cedwyn in his peripheral vision.

And he whispered what he could only hope the other would hear:

You bastard.

Jace took in a long, deep breath, more air than he thought he had—

Valith fell on them with pitch black claws, each one a dagger of moonlit ice. He was perhaps eight feet tall; his wings twice the span; brittle and sharp, slender as a switchblade and long as the winged creatures. He bent like coiling smoke, without muscle or bone to bar his way.

With every breath, his form stretched and pulled; but the runes answered, glowing the more.

Again and again, Isabelle’s lance flashed out and caught his claws—

Again and again, Jace sought to drive his blade into that fraction of a moment. He circled and circled, slashing and chopping with all his speed and power; yet even when Valith’s head was turned away, every limb was poised to react. All Jace’s blows were swatted aside.

Each time, despite his own strength, he would falter – but he would not yield.

Just beyond her ring of fire, through the haze of flames that burned but did not consume—

Isabelle thought she saw Dorsey Trent fighting beside her.

As Relic nurtured the power that lay within him, he felt as if his entire being was but a candle-flame, tempest-tossed amidst the great storm: Cedwyn was guarding him, somehow, but when he looked at the other man he saw only his old friend, eyes unfocused, breathing in and out.

That sound became what Relic honed in on – in and out, like a bellows. Relic could feel the heat from it: And the more he held it in his mind, the more he let it fuel that which was within him, the clearer his vision became. Dorsey Trent was only part of the picture – a small part.

Relic saw Valith struggling to hold more power, Gabriel Foy’s runes fighting him at every turn.

Carefully, Relic stretched out his hand, feeling the seed of magic as hot as a newborn sun.

Then, at last, it happened—

Valith’s massive fist struck Jace’s face and he felt his head twist far around. He thought certainly his neck would snap, and as his shoulder struck the stone hard enough to crack it, he knew his cheek was broken. He watched, helpless for a moment, as Isabelle fought on.

She, too, was losing ground – barely fending off a claw, then a knee, then the snapping jaws.

But it was Gabriel Foy who he found standing over him next, Foy who dragged him to his feet and shoved a water skin in his hand. Foy whose words, though he couldn’t hear them through the ringing in his ears, prompted him to pour the burning contents down his throat.

Foy who took his place and faced Valith alone just in time for Isabelle to withdraw.

Now. Run.

The voice sounded like it was in Jace’s skull – nailed a few inches deep into the bone.

But it was Foy’s voice this time.

Valith’s relentless assault had relented as he regarded his old rival with something like ...

Thoughtfulness.

“What can you do for them?” Valith asked. What can you do that no one else can do?

“You’re about to find out,” said Foy. Turning to Cedwyn, he roared: “Bar the door!”

Jace and Isabelle ran from the pavilion without looking back. Only in a passing flash did they see Cedwyn lift Foy’s sunstone from his own cloak and raise it in both hands. Instantly, the chalk runes began to react; the venomous blackness ran out of them.

Both hands extended, Relic reeled in the power he had tapped and gave it to Cedwyn.

Foy’s sword crashed against Valith’s claw—

It was all Relic could do to hoist the fallen form of Irick before he fled into the street, toward Jace and Isabelle, with Cedwyn close behind. When the Outriders were gathered, they saw the sunlight-brightness of orange energy spreading like vines over the pavilion.

“Is Jaden waiting for us?” Jace asked.

“Yes,” said Isabelle. “But ...”

“No,” Jace interrupted. “Run – and don’t look back.”

Only Relic was still staring at the pavilion when the sounds of battle were replaced by a horrific, inhuman screaming. The veins of sunlight had branched and spread – now, the whole pavilion was enveloped like an egg. When it was nearly too bright, Relic was still looking—

Only he saw what happened next:

Grotesque, twisted claws slamming into the magic bubble; a fang-filled maw open in a scream.

Don’t-stop-here, DON’T-stop-here, said the ravens. Not-here-not-here-not-here!

Relic adjusted Irick’s weight and concentrated on the man’s barely-there breath.

As the Outriders fled the square, a brilliance like molten gold hounded their every step – sapping away first the color, then the lines of form, then the very essence of everything it touched. On it went, disintegrating the heart of Sandia – and on they ran, not knowing when it might end.

Two streets were subsumed, three blocks, four, a whole neighborhood, more—

It was only when they saw the inn afloat in its own dome of pale, pleasant light that they knew Jaden was there; that there would be one safe place, even if it was all that still stood in Ursinus.

When they greeted her, the horses were ready.

They did not look back.

Chapter Twenty-Two  (E) Full Circle #2190687 by Dan Hiestand