Red-Stained Night (Solo)

[Christoph]

Chapter III: Midnight

"Light is a fickle thing. While it defies darkness and holds at bay the night, even the faintest flicker can cast the blackest shadows."

--Yuri Talinov, "The Scarlet Tragedy."

“The End of Things shall come with hellfire, flames struck not from wood nor steel. Trust not any unnatural fire, for it is demonic and an abomination of witchcraft.”

--The Ethereal Texts, First Book of Condemnations.

*

Battle raged beneath the Matron's wings. Death, smoke, and ancient magic infected the air, thick like mist between the trees. Blood stained the forest as men and beasts tore each other apart with steel and claw. Chaos ruled as lord of the night and fire rained from the sky. By the Old Gods, it was beautiful! A lifetime of arcane study in the mountains had not diminished her aesthetic appreciation -- and this growing maelstrom of butchery was art at its finest.

With the Salvic army's vanguard in disarray further into the forest, Elijah's beasts attacked the main body. Soldiers scattered as fierce monsters charged down the hill, their unprepared battle lines shattered. Only after literal hundreds had died, torn limb from limb or trampled, did their commanders rally routing front lines into a wall of shields and spears to fight back. With their eyes focused downward, the fools no longer looked to the sky.

Dozens of her sisters appeared nearby, black shadows against the night. At her signal, they swooped down between burning trees, spearing hapless soldiers with forked spears of wood and bone. Their shrill war cries echoed above screaming men. She too felt the call of battle below, but an even stronger pull from above. The storm roiled and writhed like a living thing, fused with the magic of an entire sorcerer coven: a spell greater than the sum of its parts.

She let its power flow through her, felt the living enchantment's intimate touch. Energy coursed through her body like lightning in her veins. The world below her seemed so small, so insignificant compared to her, as though she had become a god. Was this how Elijah felt, when he unleashed his arcane might?

She drew from the power, guiding the might of the storm onto the army below in a blast of lightning and wind, scattering dozens of soldiers and reducing many to smoldering husks. She cried out in mad triumph, losing herself in her magic. She swooped down, leaving trails of flame that cut a swaths through the enemy ranks. Men screamed and burned. Oh, how they burned! She was like a demon of old, terrorizing mortals from the sky.

She caught a speck of red and white moving in the corner of her eyes; she turned sharp to see a long figure with a spear rushing alone into the forest. She made ready to swoop upon him, but before she could act further, something whizzed narrowly by the matron's head. And then another, the second leaving a shallow cut in her arm. She looked down. Dozens of archers lined up below, firing crossbows at their airborne attackers. Three of her sisters fell. More bolts passed narrowly by her as she ascended, wrapping the raging wind around her like a cloak for protection. The chaos in the Salvic army subsided as officers organized their forces. Over a thousand soldiers now formed into tight pockets, holding off the marauding beasts as their armored knights charged in for the kills. Finally, they moved forward again, marching over hundreds of their own dead.

The Matron gave a shrill screech, signaling her sisters to withdraw. They had fulfilled their duties for now.

[Christoph]

Ser Anton Timko glided silently through the forest, stepping over a cluster of corpses; he paused just long enough to retrieve his arrows from his victims -- enemy scouts attempting to sneak around the battle. He kept a watchful eye and a keen ear on the distant battle. As far as he could discern, things went according to plan, though he had seen nothing of the battle save for the six enemy scouts he'd killed already. Yet, he couldn’t shake his foreboding and dread. He couldn’t deny the soundness of Belov’s plan, its brilliance even, but they faced over four thousand men. If the attacking army kept their courage, the night would get very ugly. There would be no prisoners, no terms of surrender; only a swift hunt and many, many executions. Even if any escaped, their entire operation would be finished. He wouldn’t let that happen. He had already worked too hard and invested too much.

The faint flapping of wings brought him back to the present. The lithe, sensuous form of the Seraphim Matron landed silently to his left, her grace inhuman.

“Good evening again, Celaena,” said the noble, his voice smooth and almost flirtatious. He was the only man in the army to know her name. Such a trust came only from saving her life and her entire flock from a band of Salvic demon hunters several months before. He was the reason that the Seraphim had joined the ranks Elijah’s followers. He trusted the Matron to be his eyes and ears over any other. “Your promptness is admirable.”

“Is it not always?” she replied in an amused hiss, circling around Anton and dragging her claws playfully across his chest. “My sisters have finished their attack. The main body of the Salvic host fought back the beasts and now moves forward, but damaged and delayed.”

“Good.” He stepped away from the alluring creature’s teasing fingers. Celaena sighed and drew her hand back, folding her wings irritably. “Things seem to be going according to plan. Is everyone else prepared?”

“As much as expected.” Calaena paced beside him. “The enemy vanguard is already in chaos, likely falling back. The rest of our forces now hold their position to drive back the next assault.”

“Where are Elijah and my sister?”

“Master Belov remains at the ritual site, maintaining the spell. I can feel his great power from here. It is… quite impressive.” She grinned and Anton felt a brief pang of… was it jealousy? Impossible. “As to your sister’s whereabouts, I do not know.”

“It is odd that she would escape your eyes, as sneaky as she can be,” he muttered. “No doubt Elijah knows where she is.”

“Perhaps she is even sneakier than you, my dear,” Calaena purred mischievously, her voice taking on an unusually human quality. She circled behind the noble, who frowned. “You’re not worried about her, are you? That is unlike you.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about her,” he replied, giving the sensuous seraph a sideways smirk. “I’m worried about what she might be up to.”

[Christoph]

Near forest's perimeter, Alexandria Timko was up to no good. Wrapped in a dark woolen cloak, she crept softly through the dried brush and undergrowth, clinging to shadows as she approached distant torchlight. The sounds of battle waned in the background; their forces would be preparing to meet the main body of the enemy army, which marched swiftly yet cautiously through the forest. She had bypassed those soldiers entirely; her mission lay beyond.

Her target came into view at the hill’s base. Dozens of catapults and ballistae and hundreds of siege engineers and soldiers stood in reserve, no doubt prepared to navigate through the forest once Elijah’s headquarters was found. Not that the old castle deserved even so much as the word ‘siege’. Their enemy did not know that, of course.

The next part would be far more difficult, but she would carry it out as promised, for Elijah. She needed to cut off the army from the rearguard, throwing the entire force into even more disarray.

She opened a pouch on her belt filled with tiny, strangely luminescent vials. She took one and shook it gently, watching it swirl with phosphorescent purple. She smiled; where her Elijah practiced some of the most powerful sorcery that she had ever seen, Alexandria’s possessed different specialties. Like a surprising number from the paranoid Salvic noble families, she was a skilled spy, trained to infiltrate undetected, both through the shadows and in plain view. Perhaps more unusually, she had studied alchemy since a young age, even traveling as far as Corone to learn. It took a great deal of preparation and often required expensive components, but a small vial of alchemical Wildfire could cause more havoc than a barrels of Alerarian gunpowder. And was even more likely to kill unskilled users.

She stalked closer to the first siege engine, crouched, and breathed onto the first vial. In ages past, it was thought that the alchemist actually breathed life into the magical substance; in these more enlightened times, scholars discovered otherwise. It had no practical purpose, but she stuck to the old tradition anyway, to aid her focus. She stood, and threw the vial at the catapult. Then she ran.

Alchemical fire had a five-second delay, which usually bought the thrower enough time to run off before things got ugly. In this case, it let highborn saboteur sprint by the siege works, tossing vials as she went. By the time the first vial exploded, she had already hurled six of them. She continued until she’d emptied her pouch of all twenty. Chaos broke loose as massive gouts of flame consumed man and machine alike.

Alexandria paused behind a tree to wipe sweat from her brow, breathing heavily. She turned to make her escape, but stopped short. She felt the cold press of steel against her throat.

“You are a slippery witch,” whispered the voice of death. She wanted to curse! How did he sneak up on her? “But the Hunters are the eyes of the Sway, and the gods’ eyes see all.”

[Christoph]

Bashah leapt from her tree, landing in a nimble crouch amidst enemy soldiers -- some fleeing, others charging. Her scimitar slashed out in a silver blur, mercilessly cutting down all within reach. Blood splattered on golden skin. Some of Belov’s warriors cheered as the vanguard fled the fight. She raised her hand as they moved to chase.

“Stand fast, warriors! Do not pursue!” She crouched and the others followed suit. For a moment, the din of battle faded, making way for the unmistakable rhythmic pounding of marching. She strained her eyes against the shifting dark. The great Red Wolf banner of the enemy appeared in the distance between smoldering trees, surrounded by countless soldiers with shields tight and spears high. The core of the enemy’s strength would soon push against them.

The storm’s supernatural power crackled through the air, a reservoir of arcane energy. Bashah drew from it, weaving silent incantations in her mind that she'd learned in her youth. Electricity leapt from her fingertips, scything through the advancing soldiers. The other sorcerers followed her lead, and soon the night once again blazed with lightning and fire. Blasts of wind buffeted their foes and the very earth cracked. Hundreds of Sway soldiers were consumed in the onslaught. Chaos took hold once more.

Yet even their mighty magic was a mere trickle compared to the power still above. Overhead, the eye of the storm opened, drawing clouds upward like a great maw poised to devour the earth. The roar of thunder quieted; the final act of Elijah’s plan grew near. Their master would swallow the Sway’s dogs into the very abyss. Nothing would stand before them!

* * * * *

Nicholi Chzov ran urgently through a forest aflame, trying to ignore the fading cacophony of battle and screams. Everything was falling apart; how could an army fight against the sky? Against the earth, the night itself? Sorcery consumed the heavens above. No army could withstand it; they needed his protection for that.

I am not abandoning the soldiers, he reminded himself. I am saving them. I am their only hope. He knew that few would truly appreciate it, such was the lot of his kind.

“Before the writhing gaze of the Old Night I stand; I hold for They who Exalted us. I yield no ground; take not one backward step in fear. By the Sway’s will, I will never relent.”

A smoldering orange glow appeared in the distance between the trees and the crackle of unseen energies intensified. He neared the ritual’s heart. Wind raged and lightning slashed phantom wounds into the sky. The Empowered Priest slowed, creeping through the shifting shadows.

“‘Pierce my flesh, break my bones, take my life; these matter not. Through my blood and pain, the forces of darkness shall know defeat, and even in death we will triumph.’”

He carefully approached the ritual. His first glimpse surprised him, betrayed his expectations. No blood-drawn diabolic symbols painted the earth, no dancing demons spawned from shadows. Only a huge mound of blazing embers and a single man stood before him.

His centered his gaze on that man, who as of yet did not seem aware of the Priest’s presence. Save for the strange, symmetrical scars covering the sorcerer’s torso, he looked so… normal from a distance. But to Nicholi, this warlock’s might was unmistakable. And then there was that sword jutting from the ground... Elijah Belov; there could be no doubt.

The spell’s power pressed against his skull, as though the air itself turned solid and pressed against him. The sky roared. Blood trickled from his nose. Against it all, he stood resolute. He would end this infernal ritual.

[Christoph]

The gears of arcane machinations cranked on, reaching a fevered pitch. Standing before the smoldering mound, Eli wove ever tighter the strands of magic. Chanting, he traced glyphs into the air, tendrils of smoke trailing his scalding scars. The final act neared. Soon, he would shatter the skies above and watch the world burn. The dancing flames responded to his passion, flaring up in anticipation.

Then he felt something, a sense of subtle motion and a stirring in the peripherals of his mind’s eye. Someone neared. Someone not welcome. He ceased chanting and scanned the forest. He recognized the intruder’s garb immediately. Flame licked up, coiling like a snake around Eli’s arms. He could ill afford this distraction.

“Leave here, Empowered Priest. Only doom awaits you.”

“Save your dramatics.” The stern, bald Sway agent stepped purposefully from the gloom. Intricate text faintly glowed on his iron spear. Eli could feel power cloaking the holy man.

Belov smirked. “Will you bid me surrender?”

“I will bid you die!” The priest swept wide his arm, power ringing in his praying voice. An arcane assault rippled through the air. Eli replied with a silent incantation and a casual flick of the wrist. Invisible blades shattered against an unseen barrier like glass.

Eli’s grin widened. “Save your dramatics.” The ritual would keep long enough to dispatch this church pawn. Orange embers danced across the ground at their feet. Empowered and Sorcerer locked gazes as they gripped at the primordial strands of creation. With a vicious clawing gesture, Eli unleashed his spell. Flame washed up from the earth, crashing into the Priest like hellish ocean waves.

Then a prayer echoed above the inferno. From the sky came a mighty rushing wind that swept away the flame and smoke. The Priest stood untouched, wreathed in a corona of holy light. An imitation of holy light, Eli reminded himself as he braced his feet against the wind. His foe pressed the offensive, singing a series of sacred cants. The sorcerer reacted in kind, his own voice turning gutturally low: the inside-out cry of ancient magic.

Air and fire clashed between them, sweeping up gusts of scalding smoke. The sky rumbled in protest. Flame swirled into a burning vortex. Invisible spears struck invisible shields. Fiery lances erupted from the Eli’s hands, blasting through the raging wind. The Priest raised his spear with a shout and dispelled the attack in a burst of ice and glittering light. Binding the churning heat and fire to his will, the sorcerer raised his arms into the air, as though conducting a fiery symphony. The flames rose with his hands, growing and intensifying into a massive inferno.

The Priest pushed back desperately from his narrowing pocket of wards, spitting out chains of rote-learned cants to counter Eli’s brutal assault. Exhilarating!. This, he realized, was what the Sway feared. The power to break armies, to shatter creation and set the world aflame. What the church restricted, doling out to a select few with ancient rotes, Belov took at will. He would show them their folly.

“Fool!” cried the Priest. “I am the icy northern winds. I am the sea at storm!”

“I am the cliff that breaks the tide!” Eli called back. “My power is the sky’s wrath, the heat of the earth; the undying flame!”

“Your power is the road of damnation; mine is the voice of the gods!”

“Then your power is a lie!” Searing wind singed his face, but he did not relent until the very ground cracked beneath his feet. This time, the clearing dust and ash revealed the Empowered Priest kneeling, battered and burned, in a bowl of blackened glass. Arcing golden lines swirled about him as he coughed prayer after prayer. Elijah snarled between gasps. The stubborn bastard refused to die.

The Priest stood with a blast of silver light. Jagged glass shattered and scattered across scorched ground. His pious chanting began anew, shaking the very fabric of reality. Bursts of invisible force rippled through the smoldering air. The first attack crashed into Eli’s sorcerous shield like a sledge. The incantation changed pitch. The second blow struck from the side, smashing through the weak point in his barrier and hurling him into the dirt.

The sorcerer scrambled up, struggling to keep hold on the ritual while he fought. Blades of light cut through the night, slicing gashes across his face and torso. Again he conjured his barrier to weather his foe’s relentless assault; and again raw force hammered his failing defenses. He staggered before the Empowered Priest’s flawlessly executed onslaught.

Eli held fast his slipping grip on the ritual. He struggled through dizzying pain. His sword! If only he could... As he reached for the potent weapon, a final blow struck him like a brick wall and hurled him into the mound of coals. With a rending shriek, the storm shattered. The ritual unraveled. The sky wept ash.

[Christoph]

“And the righteous shall wield the might of the Ethereal Sway like a sword from the heavens and strike down the forces of wickedness!” The cleric’s voice boomed across the frantic battlefield as the white-robed man strode confidently through the ranks, waving a smoking censer.

General Arimovi Tsiev watched from atop his horse with some fascination, wondering how a scholarly clergyman could stride through such chaos without fear. He was one of Heinrich’s men; that alone explained everything. The general looked around for the witch hunter, but could not find him. The Empowered Priest had vanished as well.

“The forces of darkness have risen to devour our great land!” The cleric did not cease, even as lightning struck a nearby tree, scattering embers in all directions. Even as the last enemy war beasts continued to rampage. Even as soldiers came fleeing down the hill out of the forest, many wounded, maimed, or on fire, the man did not falter. “By holy providence, we must drive them back to the abyss!”

“General! General Tsiev!” The urgent shouts of a messenger brought Arimovi’s attention back to the battle. A young man galloped toward him on a grey mare. “General, the rearguard is in chaos. The wagon trains and war machines are in flames!”

“What is going on back there?” the general demanded.

“I don’t know, sir. They say it’s another ambush!”

General Tsiev cursed and surveyed his army. Despite sorcerous onslaughts from above and the hoard of beasts unleashed upon them, the core of his force remained rallied. Still numbering over a thousand, they held in ranks of spears and shields. A bastion or order in a sea of chaos and death. Yet, he could scarcely advance. The enemy halted them at every turn, raining down arrows and foul magic from unseen places. Untold hundreds lay dead: charred and maimed. His vanguard crumbled, and now the rearguard was in turmoil.

The enemy struck from every angle… and even the skies turned against them, raining down wicked flame. Their foul magic threatened to tear his forces apart and his most powerful allies had abandoned him. In all his years, he had never fought such a battle! Time ran short. How could war against such power? Suddenly, a wrenching screech tore through the heavens. The storm’s eye broke apart like a shattered vase, and Tsiev felt as though freed from an immense weight.

“Look to the skies, brothers!” The cleric’s cries began anew. “The gods lend us their hand at last!”

The general knew not the ways of magic, but the holy man’s words rang true. Something had extinguished the fire in the sky. He grasped this one opportunity. Beset from all sides, the veteran general did the one thing that he could always do.

“Move forward, men!” he boomed. “Rally and reform our ranks! Shields high! Our enemies weaken!” Never one for oratory, he nodded to the cleric.

“Raise your swords, sons of Salvar! Your steel shall sing! Lift your voices to the heavens and let hell tremble beneath your feet! Bones will shatter and saints shall be born this night!" Mighty horns calls pierced the sky. The army lurched forward as one, a thousand shields held high against faltering volleys of arrows. "March! March into the very Abyss!”

[Christoph]

Chapter IV: Darkest Hour

“Demons are born in the darkest nights and the darkest hearts.”

--Pre-Sway Salvic proverb.

"You who fear the darkness shall forever live in darkness!"

--Arch-warlock Tybern Graves, at his execution.

*

Nicholi clutched tight his spear and advanced through the smoke toward the scattered pile of glowing embers. Ash and tiny bits of brimstone still rained from the sky, but the storm was broken, Elijah Belov defeated. It was over. Yet, he felt no pride nor satisfaction; only emptiness.

Suddenly, through the ashen smog, Chzov saw something shift amidst the burning coals. A power surged through the air, unlike any he had ever felt. He barely uttered a Cant of Warding before a great fiery wind exploded in all directions. Bursts of flames and embers crashed against his glowing wards. Heat singed his face. The firestorm consumed nearby trees in a torrent of red and orange. Such power! It threatened to overwhelm him. He took a knee, planting his spear into the earth. He prayed.

"Oh holy Ethereal Sway, defend your servant in his hour of conflict. Be my safeguard against dark and evil forces. By your grace and might, banish the wicked powers of the hells and cast forth its demons from this world!" Through force of will and faith, the Empowered Priest held strong his arcane defenses until the fiery onslaught ceased. The churning ash and dust settled as Chzov stood. Amidst the strewn embers stood Elijah Belov, a shadow of black and burning red, with the sword in his hand. Rage poured from the sorcerer like searing wind.

"It is over, demon!" the priest cried. He stepped forward but then stopped sharp. Something rose from the dying flames. Three burning apparitions coalesced from fire and smoke, thrashing and contorting at obscene angles. They twisted into humanoid shapes, with tendrils of flame writhing about their bodies. What manner of demons were these? The priest swallowed a curse as they turned blank faces toward him and lunged forward. He raised his spear. "Crawl back to the abyss, spawn of hellfire!"

The creatures attacked as one, tendrils flailing in a burning flurry. Nicholi dodged and weaved, but he was not fast enough. Their fiery limbs lashed against his flesh like scalding whips, leaving long blistering welts. He shouted the Cant of Storms, his voice calling a great bust of wind that blasted back his demonic assailants. The creatures broke against the ground like clumps of sand, but quickly recovered their shapes. With those precious seconds, Chzov uttered the ancient, potent Prayer of Banishment. A silver light wreathed his spear.

When they attacked again, he struck first, jabbing his spear through the first creature's torso. It shrieked and bled molten blood. With a blast of blinding light, the abomination evaporated. A haze of frozen mist swirled around his body, sparkling like the northern auroras. The remaining two shrank away from the priest, their burning bodies crackling against the cold. The Cant of Ice merged with his banishment. His icy aura expanded, consuming the fire spawn in a torrent of hissing steam.

"Belov!" he bellowed. There was fire all around him. Flame hungrily consumed ancient trees. The warlock would turn the entire forest into an ashen wasteland! "You cannot hide behind your demonic minions forever!" Nicholi strained his eyes through the churning smoke but saw no sign of the sorcerer. "Coward!"

Footsteps from his left. Instincts took over and he narrowly ducked the heretic's sword. He rolled forward and scrambled deftly to his feet with his spear at the ready. Elijah Belov stood before him. His sword burned orange like a branding iron and greenish flames danced about his feet. The flesh of his intricate scars glowed and bubbled like molten rivers. Power draped the young sorcerer like a cloak; it pressed against Nicholi's skull and chest until he felt ready to vomit.

The sorcerer unleashed a wave of raw power, flame, and shattered earth. The ground crumbled beneath Chzov's feat and heat scalded his flesh. His wards broke with a blinding flash. The fury of Belov's magic crashed into him, hurling him ten meters through the air. He crashed against a burning tree, smashing it into a hundred fiery shards. Stumbling to his knees, he once again found himself in a failing bubble of golden light, desperately praying protective Cants. This time, however, the flames attacked from all sides, reaching for him like grasping claws.

Holiest Sway, grant me your power in my hour of need! As a final act of desperation, Nicholi called forth the Prayer of Gales. The tortured sky roared in protest as a mighty whirlwind descended from above, sweeping away the flames. He stood in the eye of this storm, repeating the prayer again and again in Old Salvic, while silently beseeching his gods. You who hold back the Old Night, I beg you, bring your light unto me, your humble servant. Grant me the strength to smite your enemies! Fire and wind clashed all around him, giving birth to a burning cyclone.

Above the howling winds and flame, Elijah spoke. His words rose from the earth and fell from the sky. His was the voice of mighty storms, yet as calm as a dying breath. "Don't you realize that the world you fight to create will have no place in it for you?"

The words gave Chzov pause, but only for an instant. "I would gladly trade my soul for the soul of this kingdom!" The retort echoed hollowly in heart. The raging wall of burning wind at last died down, revealing Elijah a mere six meters away, sword down with an expression of... pity on his face.

"You have traded nothing, holy man. You have been stolen from."

"Poison not the air with your lies!" The Empowered Priest clenched his teeth as rage pulsed through him. He composure faltered. "You are an apostate, a heretic, and a sorcerer. Worse, you are a traitor to your own nation! You are an abomination before the light!"

Elijah lifted his sword as his soft, pitying face turned to hard stone. "Fire creates light as well."

The heretic dashed forward and slashed his blade in a blinding arc. Nicholi raised his sacred spear just in time, catching the vicious edge an inch from his face. The priest staggered back to create distance between them, but Belov pressed the assault. He attacked with superhuman speed and the unpredictable fury of a wildfire. The sword was a blur, seeming to strike from every angle at once. Chzov clutched his spear close, fending off the endless flurry.

Despite his best efforts, his guard failed. Belov scored cuts across his arms and thigh. Fire spread across his flesh as each wound ignited at the blade's touch. Pain surged through his body, drowning out his thoughts and darkening his vision. He faltered and Belov took advantage. The heretic ducked and weaved to the side and slashing upward with a fast, fluid strike that cut a deep gash across the priest's chest. Fire burst from the wound, leaving a great swath of blackened flesh across his torso. He cried out in agony and fell backwards, his spear slipping from numb fingers. He felt the hot top of the sword press against his throat. His end had come.

"Drop your sword, warlock," said the voice of death. Belov staggered back in sudden shock. Out of the corner of his eyes, Chzov saw the witch hunter Heinrich Reichter appear through the smoke and flame, flanked by two henchmen. He held a knife to the throat of a golden-haired woman.

* * * * *

East of the battle, swift feet padded silently between the trees. Anton Timko hugged the shadows, bow drawn taught and arrow notched. Enemy soldiers still trickled through his forest to flank Belov's forces, despite the dozens already dead by his hand. He loosed another shot, planting an arrow between a man's eyes. His mighty wolf Acteon lunged from the gloom and brought down another foe, his vicious teeth tearing flesh. More arrows flew; more enemies fell. Men cried out in pain and fear, drowning the distant din of the main battle.

A sudden rending shriek echoed from the sky. Then, the blast of a horn. The remaining soldiers withdrew without warning, heading toward the main Sway army. What in blazes is going on? The Matron's winged shadow landed beside him; he'd grown so accustomed to her presence that she did not even startle him.

“Something is wrong,” she said simply, glancing around nervously. That wasn't like her.

“An astute statement.” Anton rolled his eyes.

“No jokes, now. Look up!” Celaena raised a slender finger to the sky. He saw it. The great maelstrom of malignant cloud and lightning that once filled the heavens had broken apart. Ash fell like snow and wind swept in all directions. She shook her head. “The threads of magic have somehow unraveled.” Anton had no idea what that meant, but he didn't like the sound of it.

“What do we do?”

“I shall gather my sisters and investigate. You must find Bashah and our remaining forces. I fear for them.” With a flap of her mighty wings, she took to the skies once more, leaving the young nobleman alone. He called his wolf with a snap of his fingers and sprinted westward, toward the sounds of battle.

[Christoph]

Alexandria's heart drummed hard in her chest. The knife's cold steel felt like a shard of ice against her throat. With her hands bound, she was helpless. The distant sounds of battle grew ever nearer and smoke clogged the air. The sight of Elijah hit her with a wave of despair. She knew that look in him, the clash of grim determination and impossible weariness. His eyes were as dark and hard as obsidian and his very flesh seemed to smolder. The man at his feet looked even worse off. And now the cursed witch hunter had dragged her here. Everything was falling apart!

After a long pause, Elijah spoke. “Using the girl as a hostage?” He chuckled, pointedly not dropping his sword. He always makes light of dire situations. “That's rather trite, even for the likes of you.”

“Jest if you like, Elijah Belov.” The hunter's voice made her skin crawl, calling forth thoughts of dying crops and infants born still. “But she will die if you continue defying us. Surrender.”

What could they do? Pray? Alexandria's mother had fallen ill when she was just a child. She remembered praying to the Sway for hours each day until her voice grew hoarse, asking for a miracle. When her mother died, she lost faith in the church. Over the years, she had beseeched numerous deities old and new in her times of need. None had ever answered. And now, in her most desperate hour, she had run out of gods to beg.

Eli scoffed. “If you know my name, then you should know that I'm not a fool.” She only had him. She hated waiting helplessly with her fate solely in the hands of others, but she trusted him. “If I surrender to your laughable idea of mercy, I may as well cut her throat and mine right now.”

The hunter smiled mirthlessly. “Fear not, sorcerer. I am not an unjust man.” Belov snorted, but the witch hunter ignored him. “Now, I was under the impression that you cared for this woman... though, is a demon spawn truly capable of love, I wonder? You are the one I want, not her. Out of generosity, I will offer you a trade. “

“No, don't--” She stopped short as the dagger pressed harder against her throat.

“Silence! You for her; that is my deal. Throw down your weapon and come quietly and she goes free. It is that simple. You come with me to stand trial and answer for your crimes and she gets to keep her life.” Conflicting emotions raged within her. Fear for her own life, guilt at putting them in this position, and then a glimmer of hope. She looked right at Elijah, nodding ever so slightly. The witch hunter wanted to take him alive; that was their one chance. He could escape – she and the others could rescue him. Anything was possible so long as they lived.

“No.” Eli's voice hit her like freezing water. “I don't trust you, firstly. Secondly, do you expect me to abandon the field with the battle still raging? I've worked too hard and sacrificed too much to throw it away.”

“So you would also sacrifice the woman you love to continue your futile efforts against us?”

“You have miscalculated your position.” He still didn't lower his sword. A grin appeared on his face, as cold and hard as iron. The breath caught in her throat. What are you doing, Elijah? “You see, she is the only thing protecting you from me. She is your one shield from my immediate retaliation.” He took a step forward. The bald man at his feet lurched forward, but with a casual motion, Eli stabbed him through the chest and kicked him back to the ground. His raised his bloodied sword. “Here's my deal: you let her go and run as fast you can, praying to your false gods that I don't bother stabbing you in the back. Otherwise, I promise your remains will never return to Knife's Edge.” His voice was calm and cold, emotionless. She knew that voice; he used it whenever he weighed risks and made hard choices. It was the one thing about him that ever truly frightened her.

“Poor, deluded heretic. If you think I have miscalculated, then you clearly misunderstand my intentions.” His terrible smile widened. “This entire charade was an attempt to take you alive. While preferable, that not required.”

“I'm tired of your bluffing,” Belov growled, his voice at last rising as he advanced another step. Alexandria's eyes widened. Don't... please! “Last chance.”

“Very well.” With a motion as casual as scratching an itch, the hunter cut her throat. She barely felt the cut. Her vision blurred. Her knees buckled and she toppled to the smoldering ground, blood oozing into the dirt.

* * * * *

Anton found their forces in retreat. The Sway army had somehow rallied and now pushed forward, an immovable wall of spears and shields. Fires still raged across the battlefield. Arrows flew back and forth through the smoke. Men screamed. War horns continued to sound. The sky rumbled, now more a sickly grunt than a menacing roar. Bashah stood amidst the chaos, brown skin stained red and her curved sword held high.

He called out, rushing toward her. “Bashah! What is happening?”

“The ritual is broken!” she shouted back, turning to face him as her black-clad warriors rushed by.

“What do you mean, broken?” he demanded, gasping in the smog. He crouched beside her, behind a huge smoldering stump.

“I mean it's gone,” she snapped. “Its power is scattered!” He had never seen her agitated before. This is bad.

“Damn it!” he cursed, wiping soot from his face. “It was the linchpin of our entire plan! Now what do we do?”

“The enemy has suffered heavy losses, but still outnumber us greatly.” A crossbow bolt whizzed over her head. “We must fall back to the ruins. Master Belov will know what to do.”

“This makes no sense!” Anton clenched his fists in frustration. “How could the ritual be broken? Elijah is at the ritual site.”

[Christoph]

For a moment, Elijah could not move, could not breathe. He clenched his fists as a numbing chill spread from his chest. With widened eyes, he watched Alexandria fall to the ground. Something broke inside him. The witch hunter spoke, but the words sounded far-off. Cold fury gleamed in his eyes and the ground trembled beneath his feet. Terrible power coursed through him.

Heinrich and his two henchmen rushed in from three sides. The sorcerer almost welcomed their blades across his flesh, but forced all that despair and guilt from his mind; he'd made the hunter a promise. His sword lashed out in blinding arcs, cleaving through flesh and bone like paper. The two henchmen crumpled into bloody heaps. Heinrich raised his own curved sword, but a blinding blast of flame and rage sent him sailing back. The witch hunter slammed into a tree and fell smoldering into the mud.

Without even pausing to blink, Eli dropped his sword and rushed to Alexandria, kneeling by her side. Her breath came in wet, choking gasps as she desperately pressed her hands against her bleeding throat. What could he do? Despite all his power and skill, he could not heal or fix; he could only destroy. Burn, kill.

“I'm sorry... so sorry.” His voice was a ragged whisper. Only then did he feel the tears staining his face. He stroked her face. “I didn't... I...” What could he say? Despite his intentions, he had failed her when she needed him. He had... had gambled her life, and for what? This war, his 'cause', seemed so petty and pointless compared to the woman he loved dying beside him.

What could he blame? Only himself and his pride.

She coughed, spraying specks of blood across his chest. No. He couldn't let her die. The cut across her throat was wide, but shallow. If he could just... Forgive me. He held up his right hand; flames enveloped his fingertips. With his left hand, he covered Alexandria's eyes, hoping beyond hope that she had already passed out from shock. With burning fingers, he pinched her gash closed. Her body went rigid and she let out a silent scream as she finally fell unconscious. Skin burned and bubbled as he cauterized the wound. The bleeding stopped; in the cut's place, a thick streak of red and hideous black stretched across her throat, the sight of it burning forever into his memory. He clutched her against his chest, lost in her shallow, ragged breaths. He barely noticed the shadow looming over him.

“It is better for you this way, in truth.” There stood the witch hunter, smoldering and battered, sword raised above his head. “I am not a wicked man. I will make your death quick. Your suffering is at an--” Beating wings cut him off. Eli looked up; the Matron landed behind Heinrich, her vicious claws extending from her fingers. The hunter spun around, too slowly. The Seraphim lashed out, slashing across his chest and neck.

“For a thousand years, your church as hunted my people to near extinction.” She did not stop until the Sway agent ceased struggling and gasped his last.“I shall return the favor in due time.” Blood stained her arms up to the elbows. “The ritual is broken. How?” Eli opened his mouth to speak just as Ser Timko burst into the clearing, wolf at his heels.

“The battle goes ill! The Sway's forces have rallied and without the ritual, they will soon overrun us.” Anton paused to catch his breath and wipe ashen dust and sweat from his brow. He looked around the smoldering forest in disbelieve. “What happened here?” His gaze fell onto Alexandria; he turned accusing eyes toward Elijah. His voice went as cold and dark as night. “What happened to my sister?”

“He happened,” Eli growled, glaring at Heinrich's scorched, shredded corpse. I happened. He shook his head and stilled the storm in his thoughts. He poured every remaining drop of calm authority into his voice. “We must return to the ruins right away.” He stood up, holding the unconscious Alex stubbornly in his arms. Anton appeared behind him with the sword, sliding it into the sheath at Eli's waist. “Quickly, before everything falls apart.”

[Christoph]

They found Bashah at the keep, kneeling as she tended a wounded man. Blood and dirt caked her body. Dozens scurried about the crumbling walls and towers, with more warriors streaming in, many injured. Scattered battle sounds echoed through the trees; the beating of drums grew closer. Eli laid Alex down on a patch of moss and rushed to the brown-skinned sorceress, calling to her. She looked up at the sound of his voice, and then quickly stood.

“Master Belov, the Men of the Sway will be upon us in minutes.” Her scarred face was hard to read, but he saw the faintest glimmer of fear in her good eye.

Belov cursed. “What's our situation?”

“The war beasts are dead and our sorcerers spent.” She looked down, as though shamed by her words. “We devastated their numbers, but at least a thousand have rallied and march on our position. Without the ritual's power to aid us and turn the sky against our foes, we could not hold them back. What happened?”

“Too much,” he replied, not yet willing to relive what had happened. “Some of their agents found me at the ritual site. How many of us remain?”

Bashah frowned. “Too few. But you have a plan, yes?” The hope in her voice was a dagger twisting in his chest.

“No.” He almost choked on the word, clenching his fists in frustration. “The battle is lost. We must retreat. Retreat and rebuild. Hope remains so long as we live.” He spoke without emotion, with the cold cadence of phrases often practiced. Anton appeared beside him. Eli turned and said, “Gather what we can and prepare to leave.” The noble nodded and sprinted off.

“These men of the Sway will not simply let us leave,” said Bashah quietly once Anton was gone. “They will hunt us down as we flee.”

“What else can we do?” Belov could barely think through the pounding in his skull. “If we stand and fight, we'll all die. If we run, at least some of us might make it.” He shook his head, repeating, “What else can we do?”

Her lips formed a determined line. “I will take a small group of warriors and hold off our enemy’s advance here, at the ruins.”

“No! Absolutely not.” He tightened his fists until they hurt. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Master, it is your only chance. The enemy will not risk splitting their forces again for fear of more ambushes. If we make a stand here, perhaps the rest of you can escape and rebuild. You must survive.”

“Too many have already died for me!” The edge in Eli's voice gave her pause. He closed his eyes and sighed. He felt so, so weary. Bashah tilted her head and eyed her fraying master curiously, as though seeing him for the first time.

“When I joined you, I swore my life to your cause. It is an honor to fulfill that promise tonight.” Words failed him. He could only look at the desert-born sorceress, standing calmly before him as she prepared to face her death. I don't deserve it. She clasped his hand. Their eyes met and for an instant he felt as though he truly knew her. Here stood a woman born and raised to serve, to sacrifice for causes greater than herself, ready to fulfill her true, final purpose. She smiled. “Go now. I ask only that you remember me.”

* * * * *

General Arimovi Tziev sat atop a brown gelding, which he had commandeered after his gray stallion died to a crossbow bolt early in the battle. All around him, his remaining thousand men marched forward in tight ranks. He wanted to think of them as his most disciplined soldiers, but in truth they were merely the luckiest. The traitors had fought with great ferocity, low cunning, and devastating power; over two-thirds of his army lay dead. So many good men... But now, his foes were out of tricks. They holed up in their ruined castle for their futile last stand.

“Lieutenant!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “Take a detachment around the left side of the ruins. Move cautiously; we cannot afford to fall into any more traps.” The witch hunter and his pet Empowered were nowhere to be found, but it did not matter. Armies won battles, not assassins or magic. His few remaining officers relayed orders and his forces moved forward. He would fulfill his duty as a general and put this night’s madness to an end.

* * * * *

Ragged and weary, Belov’s surviving followers fled north through forest. The sounds of battle grew faint, but no one would relax until they put far more distance between them and the Men of the Sway. Elijah staggered and stumbled over the rocky ground, holding tight to Alexandria’s limp, unconscious form. Exhaustion weighed heavily upon him.

“Elijah, hurry!” Anton urged. “We need to put as much ground between them and as we can.”

“I’m trying.” He lacked the heart or energy for even a witty quip.

“Give me Alexandria. I will carry her for a while.”

“I’ve got her,” Belov snapped.

“Dammit, man, you can barely stand let alone carry her. I don’t know what happened at the ritual site, but I am her brother. Let me take her.”

He was right, of course. Eli sighed, reluctantly passing Alexandria to her brother. She stirred as she changed hands, her eyes fluttering open. She looked up at Elijah. Her gaze struck like a dagger in his chest. Since the day they met, her eyes always nearly glowed with soft warmth. Now, they held nothing but ice. They were a stranger's eyes, filled with fear and revulsion.

* * * * *

Exhaustion filled Bashah like lead, her mind and body spent from hours of combat and sorcery. She crouched behind a crumbling stone wall with twenty warriors. A thousand enemies closed in on the ruins from all sides. More fighting, but she was no stranger to it. She would rest soon.

She looked to her fearless followers. "We will die here." There was no fear or despair in her voice, only cold certainty. "We cannot change that. We can change how we go. For every moment we endure, our master gets one step closer to escape. For every foe we slay, their will to pursue will diminish. If we are to die, we will drag many souls with us into the abyss."

No cheers or valorous cries escaped her warriors. They simple waited silently, their faces grim and determined. Good men. Strong, honorable men. She would proudly march with them into the next life.