Red-Stained Night (Solo)

Prologue


1810th Year of Strength, mid autumn; just south of Archen.

Foul wind whispered through lifeless trees, spreading chill across a silent battlefield scarred by magic-blasted craters and littered with death. The setting sun glared down on the days’ butchery like a judging eye, and a bleak, crypt-like stillness enveloped the land. Cold, harsh, and dead: it was Archen, and for Nicholi Chzov, it was both his home and his shame.

As an Empowered Priests of the Ethereal Sway, Nicholi's oaths bound him to defend faith and kingdom against all threats, without and within. These were grim days for the church, despite Saint Denebriel’s glorious return. Civil war still gripped the nation and fiefdom after fiefdom declared against the rightful ascendancy of the church. The rebellion at the city of Archen, a strategically crucial Sway bastion, cost the struggling church dearly, militarily and in spirit. The rebels fought bitterly, giving no quarter and refusing to surrender, even in the face of superior numbers and the presence of three Empowered.

It hit Nicholi especially hard, as though his own family had betrayed him. He longed for his days on the frontier, fighting savage monsters and tribes in the wild instead of his own countrymen.

Only faith and devotion to his order kept him from losing heart, even as he fought and killed his own people. Empowered Priests were among the most loyal and elite Sway agents, fiercely conditioned for purity and strength of body, mind, and soul. For they alone were sanctioned to practice the arcane arts, trained to master to very voice of the gods. One could turn the tides in battle; in numbers, they change the course of wars. He was a weapon; what right had the weapon to rage against being wielded?

Nicholi, one of the most powerful Empowered in Salvar, proudly projected his order's image. He wore simple red and gold vestments beneath a white cloak. In his middle years, he looked both youthful and wise. He still kept his head completely shaved, as he had since his initiation. It helped him remember humility, to feel pride in glorifying the gods rather than himself.

At that moment though, he could not feel glory in anything; he felt only a heavy tugging at his soul and the sense that much work still awaited him. The mystery of Archen’s uprising needed unraveling. Something or someone had fomented heresy in his home city. Justice before rest. With a sigh, Chzov pulled his cloak tight and set out to reunite with the Sway forces, who had, judging by the smoke trails rising from the distant city, had already begun purging the city.

Something moved in his peripherals. Light, scraping footsteps broke the silence. He stopped sharp and scanned his surroundings, instinctively gripping his spear. The spears of the Empowered were always forged from solid iron. Beautifully crafted weapons engraved with calligraphic scriptures, they were the Order’s badge of office, representing both their power and the weight of their responsibility.

He heard footsteps again. A grey-clad figure peaked from behind a rock before quickly dashing away. Suspicion appears on swift legs, mused Chzov, sprinting after his mysterious visitor. They raced across the rugged battlefield, jumping over corpses and darting between boulders. He could have buffeted the man with wind or struck him down with lightning, but that would have needlessly wasted his strength. He was not so reliant on his magic.

Instead, Nicholi gave chase through the forest of rocks, keeping an even pace and waiting for his reckless prey to make a mistake. Whether due to dimming light, uneven ground, or careless haste, the hooded man stumbled. The Sway agent swooped in and swept out the stranger’s feet with his spear.

“Stand down in the name of the Sway!” Nicholi leveled his spear. His voice softened slightly. “The battle is over. There has been enough death today. Surrender now and you will be treated fairly.”

“Your church’s ‘fairness’ is torture and a public execution!” the traitor snarled, crawling away.

“And you would rather die on your back in the dirt?” Chzov sighed impatiently. “You have it on my honor that—” Then he felt it: a subtle stirring in the air, the tugging at the strings of reality. A sudden, mighty burst of wind hurled him into a boulder.

Warlock! Few were more reviled than those who blasphemed the voice of the gods.

With a pained grunt, Nicholi scrambled to his feet, struggling against intensifying gusts. Shards of ice filled the swirling wind, slicing his face like broken glass. He grinned wildly. Few knew just how much he reveled in such contests of arcane might and skill, let alone the chance to deliver a warlock to damnation.

In the holy tongue of High Salvic, Nicholi sang the Prayer of Gales, his words ringing with power. The wind itself answered his call and obeyed. With an exertion of will, he pushed back his foe’s assault. Icy whirlwinds spawned between them as they clashed. The warlock shouted desperately and rumbling thunder replied. The heathen wielded impressive power, but his crude lack of finesse made him seem a clumsy child compared to Chzov. And like any parent, he quickly tired of the game.

Eerily calm amidst raging wind, he wove his second spell from the Prayer of Sun and the Cant of the Lance. He pulled the sparse warmth from the earth and air, and as much from his body as he dared, and focused it into his spear until its engravings glowed orange. With a burst of will, he unleashed the gathered heat in a single, focused spike that pierced the relentless tide of wind and ice. The warlock faltered, and with a casual gesture, Nicholie unleashed an intense blast of kinetic force that slammed his foe onto the ground.

He darted forward and kicked the warlock in the chest as he tried to rise, and then pressed his spear against the heathen’s throat.

“Now, perhaps we can now discuss matters like civilized men.” He towered over his new captive. Even in weariness, he possessed an imposing presence. The stranger, however, remained defiantly silent. “Do you know who I am, warlock? No? I am Empowered Priest Nicholi Chzov. I serve under the famed witch hunter Heinrich Reichter.” He took a moment’s satisfaction from the fear and surprise in the man’s face. “Ah, yes. You know of him, at least. Now you understand. You can either speak to me, or sing for him.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice quavering. Warlocks, as any who covet power above all else, cower before those more powerful than themselves.

“Only information, and for that you are most fortunate.” For emphasis, he pressed his spear harder against the traitor’s neck, drawing a bead of blood. “The question should be obvious. Archen had remained loyal to the Sway for too long to have risen up on its own accord. Who sparked this rebellion?” The warlock hesitated, but Alexander did not need a spoken answer. He focused his will once again, weaving the threads of magic into a much different spell, one that delved into his captive’s thoughts. The traitor's mind tasted like old meat, but the Empowered persisted. Amidst a sea of fear and anger he glimpsed a caravan of strangers, hardened men and women. Tainted. Sorcerers. And he heard a single name.

“Elijah Belov,” Chzov whispered darkly, ominous comprehension dawning. The traitor’s eyes widened. “I believe Reichter will be most eager to speak with you.”

“No!” he cried, real panic in his voice. “I'll talk to you! You said--”

“‘Just as the heathen makes a mockery of the truth, so too does truth make a mockery of the heathen.’” With that, Chzov spoke but a single, powerful word and touched his captive's forehead. The warlock contorted and spat out a tortured howl before falling unconscious. He dragged the man to the encampment, trying to calm his tumultuous thoughts. The infamous rogue sorcerer Elijah Belov had come to Archen. The battle for its land was over, but the battle for its soul loomed still ahead. In the distance, smoke rose from what he had once thought a defeated city.

I: Dusk

"The civil war in Salvar saw demigods and demons battle across frozen fields for the earth and soul of the kingdom. Songs and epics will tell their stories for centuries to come. Yet, some of this conflict's most important players spawned from humbler origins and remained largely unnoticed for much of the war. Of them, few minstrels sing, yet the threads of destiny were tethered to them as strongly as Denebriel herself."

--"A Compendium of the War of Flesh."


“If power did not corrupt, who would desire it? When shackled to purity and honor, power becomes lessened, its uses narrowed. Corruption frees the powerful man from these restraints, though sometimes from his soul as well.”

--From the treatises of Silas Rotero, a Coronian philosopher.

*

The Hills of Doth, just north of Archen.

It was late. The sun retreated behind rocky hills, draining warmth and color from the sky and giving way to dusk. Silence smothered the falling night, broken only by the crunch of rocks and leaves beneath clumsy feet. Weary and ragged, Jonathan half walked, half stumbled through the darkening forest. He looked every bit the grubby mountain trapper, with his tattered brown cloak dragging on the ground and a tangled mat of filthy hair stuck to his scalp.

Under dusk’s shadowy veil, the landscape took on a nightmarish visage. Gnarled skeletal trees reached for the starless sky like claws and the ancient pines towered like slave masters over their sickly cousins. A grim, deathly stillness fell as the trapper hurried through the woods, pointedly ignoring the subtle prickling at the back of his neck. He could see no evidence of a threat; no sound or movement. This only unsettled him more, as though he walked not through a real, living forest, but the corpse of one.

The sun vanished completely, and Jonathan regretted not waiting for morning to check his traps, thus avoiding this daunting evening trek. But alas, his family was hungry and leaving the traps overnight would have invited wild animals to make off with what he’d snared. He held up his catch; a fine brown hare that would surely please his wife and two daughters. After wandering the wooded steppes all day, tracking and trapping, he would be happy to return home to them.

He would never see them again, of course. He died silently without so much as a fearful gasp, slumping to the ground with a black arrow in his throat. The night had begun its reign.

It had been a clean kill – swift, silent, and lethally effective. Yet, it felt so… unsatisfying. Ser Anton Timko strode silently through the woods, bow still in hand. Massive and black as sin, the wolf Acteon padded quietly behind, dragging its master’s most recent kill by the head. The noble sighed and ran a hand through surprisingly well-groomed blonde hair -- one was never too busy to avoid looking like a commoner.

He sighed, frustrated like a man interrupted in the heat of passion. His mistake treated the filthy peasant as an opponent rather than prey. He typically reserved the dealing of swift and efficient death for those worth of calling real foes. This pathetic victim had been just that: a victim – an insignificant wretch to be terrified and toyed with for his pleasure. Such a waste. At least the peon would serve a nobler cause in death than in life: that of feeding his master’s clutch of savage beasts.

The shoddy cottage he’d come across three hours before, however... Much more enjoyable. He had found a mother and two daughters there by themselves. Anton had waltzed up to the home in broad daylight, delighted as they screamed and ran for the door at the sight of his weapons and murderous eyes. He set his wolf after one, smiling and letting the remaining two listen to her screams while he pretended to struggle for an entrance to their hovel. Once he grew bored of that, breaking in for real to finish the job had proved as simple as breathing. It almost made up for his last kill. Almost.

He left their brutalized remains pinned to dead trees as a warning to trespassers. This forest and everything in it belonged to his master.

He smiled in spite of himself. To think, instead of stalking the wilderness like a reaper, the young lordling could have remained home, waiting for his father to hurry up and die so he could claim the Timko estates. Besides, if things went as his master planned, and the uprising they sparked in nearby Archen grew into something far larger, Anton could claim his own slice of the new order and gain wealth and power surpassing his most delusional fantasies. The schemes of carving out a new domain in the heart of Salvar amidst the civil war had seemed far-fetched at first, but they grew on him. There was... something about that former chef, their leader and his master, that drew him in, something beyond the man's wits and formidable sorcerous power.

What can I say? Megalomania sells.

A chorus of familiar reptilian snarls shook the noble from his reverie. He had reached the headquarters, and their small pack of ferocious, hot-blooded Ashkore lizards, part horse, part dragon, and fully grotesque in appearance, smelled the fresh blood of his victim. Three of the large scaly monstrosities pounced on meat immediately, their vicious jaws rending flesh and crushing bone. Spiked tails batted against leathery green flanks as they scuffled over the trapper's meager carcass. Another beast snarled from its massive cage nearby, but he always let the beast callers feed that one. Anton started toward the keep, leaving his wolf to fight over meat with the lizards.

Though their base of operations had once been a mighty hilltop castle, time had reduced it to a rotted corpse of its former glory. Illuminated by torches and strange glowing crystals, the crumbling walls took the color of dead flesh. Patches of green moss covered the masonry like a cadaverous rot. It provided a forbidding atmosphere at night, but offered little real protection, and even the central keep cracked and crumbled beneath the weight of years.

Anton would find his master in that keep; it was the command post of Elijah Belov – known as the butcher of souls, the heart of flame, and many other titles, some less flattering and accurate than others.

The ruins swarmed like a hive with activity that night. Hundreds of warriors from hundreds of leagues in every direction scurried back and forth, patrolling or doing other duties. He also saw many unfamiliar faces; the new recruits, no doubt, though few of these appeared to be warriors. Most carted cut stones and logs; had Belov finally decided to repair the castle? About time.

Anton entered the keep and headed to the far corner, to the only fully intact room in the entire broken castle: the kitchen, of all places. Sometimes, great men spawned from humble beginnings, he supposed. No guards stood at the door; indeed his master hardly needed such protection.

He knocked, out of respect. “It's Anton.”

“Enter,” called Elijah. His voice possessed a ring of youthful vigor and clarity and a subtly powerful commanding edge.

Belov sat at the end of the room, behind a large table covered with maps, ledgers, and empty plates. An iron woodstove glowed behind him and pots and cauldrons cluttered the walls. Several other members of the inner circle crowded around the table, filling the small kitchen. A lantern hung from the ceiling and smoke, grease, and human odor thickened the air.

“Was your patrol productive?” Elijah asked, looking up from a frayed parchment. Even with the tattered chef coat under his cloak, the man managed a forceful, almost majestic presence. He possessed a strong chin and dark eyes, and also had strangely compelling aura, a certain… something about him that demanded respect. Very unusual for a commoner.

“Yes, I would say that it was.” The noble grinned. He took his seat in the empty chair by the door and folded his black-gloved hands on the table. “Standard perimeter scout. Then, I took… measures to prevent trespassing, and to ensure that no one else possesses intimate knowledge of these hills.”

“Lovely, and how many did you kill this time?” asked a new voice. Anton glanced to the far corner and his lips curled into a sneer. There sat his younger sister, Alexandria Timko, leaning forward with a steaming tin mug in her hands. She glared with contempt at her older sibling. “There is psychological warfare, but then there is senseless brutality.”

Anton rolled his eyes dramatically. He and his sister shared the same blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and well-trimmed noble bearing, but the similarities ended there. Anton prided himself on his cunning and mercilessness, not caring about the means so long as he achieved the desired ends. His sister, though sly and clever, was honorable to a fault and sickeningly noble – an improper demeanor for a woman, he thought.

“I only killed four, dear sister, and none from the city,” he replied snidely. Anton had long ago grown weary of his sister’s constant impugnations. “The trapper to feed the beasts and three others left as a warning.”

“Or as invitation to the Archen city watch, and every mercenary and witch hunter within twenty leagues, to come investigate!” Alexandria narrowed her eyes, her brow angrily furrowed. “You would risk them finding out what we’ve really been doing out here just to slake your pyschopathic urges!”

“I say let them come!” Anton spat, pounding the table. "We have hid here long enough!"

“That is quite enough.” Belov barely raised his voice, but his cold command halted the argument with stunning efficiency. “Alexandria, this is no place for the faint of heart or squeamish. You know that.” The Timko sister sank into her chair, eyes smoldering. Anton allowed a smug grin, until Elijah turned toward him. Then he felt like a child caught swiping sweets.

“Nor is it time for your pointless stupidity, Anton,” their commander continued, a trace of venom tainting his voice. “Even with most of Salvar embroiled in civil war, there are many factions who would try to stamp us out, the Church in particular. Eliminating intruders is one thing, but until we’re fully prepared, we cannot risk advertising our presence.” As if on cue, beyond the door came the sound of beating wings. The former chef tilted his head. “The scouts are back early.”

The door opened unceremoniously without even a knock, and a stunning winged woman stepped through with a dancer's steps. She was the Matron of the Seraphim flock and one of their organization’s most powerful arcanists. Everyone looked on as she folded her wings and knelt before Elijah, a gesture that seemed very out of place from such a formidable figure. From her mighty black-feathered wings to her majestic, silk-draped form and powerful aura, she was deadly and magnificent. Some scholars believed them to be demons or the product of ancient magic. To Anton she was an angel of death. So terrifyingly beautiful.

“We have information, my lord,” she said, her voice like a sad song in the wind. “The Ethereal Sway has arrived at Archen.” A collective gasp escaped the inner circle.

“How many?” Elijah demanded.

“The Church leads a great host of thousands, master. They arrived swifty in the morning and crushed the uprising by late afternoon. They have already begun reassembling their forces and send scouts to probe the forest’s edge as we speak.”

For the first time, something akin to uncertainty flashed in Belov’s eyes. “How could they know about us? We kept our involvement very subtle.”

“They clearly suspected outside influence from the beginning. We also believe they captured one of your agents, the sorcerer Andre, and extracted information from him to confirm their suspicions.” She paused. Everyone knew what 'extracted' meant, and gave their fallen comrade a moment's silence. “I would have brought word sooner, but so many watchful eyes hindered our movements.”

“Thousands of soldiers,” he murmured. “They arrived far more quickly than I anticipated…” He Anton a sharp look. “And they will have no trouble finding us.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Heinrich Reichter stood looking out over Archen. Spires of smoke rose from the city in the twilight as the rebel holdouts smoldered. All along the outer walls, traitors and blasphemers burned in massive pyres, spreading the stink of charred flesh for miles. He nodded in satisfaction from the perimeter of the army’s camp; such vile crimes of moral turpitude deserved nothing less.

As a witch hunter in the Order of Purifiers, Heinrich displayed the dark and intimidating image of his profession, with his black cloak, leather hauberk, holy symbols, and stern, unyielding scowl. A sword and dagger hung at his waist. He turned to the general at his side, whose name he had not bothered to remember.

“Treason, heresy, conspiracy, sacrilege, and harboring warlocks: such crimes will earn the condemned far greater punishments in the next world.”

“You would know better than I,” replied the general, shuffling uncomfortably in the presence of the dangerous religious agent. “I am just glad to be done with it. Fighting against the savages in the north is one thing, but I never enjoy taking arms against fellow Salvarians.”

Heinrich couldn’t help but smirk; the man sounded like Nicholi Chzov. Beyond their sentimentalities though, their similarities ended. The old officer had a strong, sturdy military bearing, likely bred into his family for generations. Where Nicholi seemed younger than his years, this general looked much older, his hair gray and his face weatherworn, pockmarked with scars. His voice had the raw gruffness that comes from years of shouting orders; here was a man who spent his entire life fighting for his kingdom and his liege. He was a man of honor. Reliable, predictable: the ideal tool in a holy war.

“All men have doubts, but one must be strong and not allow such thoughts to hinder his duty. The Ethereal Texts teach us this.” Heinrich’s voice possessed firm conviction. “And you are wrong about one thing: this is not yet over.”

“Not over? But we crushed the revolt. We captured and executed its leaders. We may need to leave an occupying force for a while, but beyond that…”

“Witches are roaches among men, General. They would scatter from the Sway’s light and hide in the filth and darkness, waiting to scurry forth from the shadows and spread their plague of damnation once again. You see, this uprising was but a symptom of that larger sickness.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I am very good at my job,” Heinrich replied, his voice cold and certain. He recalled with strange fondness interrogating the warlock that Nicholi had brought him. The heathen had been insufferably defiant.

“So Elijah Belov caused the uprising? Speak!” Heinrich demanded. The warlock lay strapped naked and bloody to a table in the Reichter's tent. The witch hunter circled purposefully around it.

“Your people caused the uprising!” the rebel spat. “How long did you expect the citizens of Archen to slave and starve to meet the desires of your corrupt church?”

“‘Take from the witch his tongue lest his words poison your righteous heart’,” Reichter recited, pressing a serrated knife against the captive’s throat. “Be careful, lest I decide to practice the literal interpretation of that passage. Though to be honest, in that one area the Ethereal Texts seem a bit too... lenient. I long for the day when all of your kind are scoured from creation, and the blasphemy that is magic ceases to be.” He grinned like the face of death. “The Sway asks only that its loyal provinces do their duty in return for the prosperity and protection it provides. Not that you would know anything about duty.” Satisfied with the traitor’s silence, the hunter continued, his voice as cold and piercing as a dagger in the night. “Where did the rat flee to after inciting this foul treason?”

The warlock hesitated, and Nicholi stepped from the shadows, looking pale -- the Empowered Priest never had the stomach for these affairs. “Into the hills of Doth, a league north of Archen,” said Chzov. “He has established a headquarters in a ruined castle.” Heinrich smiled as the heathen’s eyes darkened with anguish, as though he cursed his own traitorous thoughts. Once again, the witch hunter appreciated his Empowered retainer’s unending usefulness, though he still did not trust magic, sanctioned or otherwise.

“And what, pray tell, is Belov doing there?” The hunter glared menacingly at his captive.

“Burning holy books?” the warlock offered, seeming to find his nerve in the face of oblivion. Cold and casual, Heinrich cut a jagged gash down the man’s chest.

“You have expended your utility,” he said simply. He selected a new knife from a table beside him, a razor sharp cleaver. “‘Take from the traitor his hands lest he continue working his vile machinations.’” The blade arced down, biting through flesh, tendons, and bone. A tormented cry erupted from the tent, and the witch hunter’s voice boomed above it. “‘Take from the heathen his eyes lest he covet the souls of the virtuous!’” This time, a small scalpel. Begging; screams. “‘And take from the witch his tongue…’”

“The true culprit behind this revolt is a rogue sorcerer, a warlock, named Elijah Belov,” Heinrich explained, blinking from his reverie. His fist tightened at the name. “The heathen is very dangerous; he murdered a brother in my order after stealing a deadly infernal relic. He and his followers hide in ruins north of the city. During my investigations over the last three months, I have captured four rogue sorcerers heading for Archen. There are surely more. We must root them out and cleanse this infection permanently before it is too late.”

“You would have me lead my men deep into the hills and forest tonight?” asked the general, a incredulity filtering into his voice. It sounded dangerously close to insubordination. “My soldiers are weary and the city is still in a state of unrest. If I left with the bulk of my army now, Archen could be in chaos by the time we return. And the gods only know what awaits us out there.”

“The Sway commands it, General.” He would accept no questions to his authority. “You still have over four thousand fighting men under your command. Even if all the rumors are true, that will be enough to scour the forest of his infernal presence. I’ve already taken the liberty of sending scouts to range ahead.” The officer clenched his jaw but said nothing. “Assemble your forces immediately, General. It is our holy duty.”

“What do you make of all this?” asked Elijah, fidgeting with a small knife, probably wishing he had some carrots or potatoes to slice. For as long as Alexandria had known him, working with food had helped ease his mind. The lamp's warm glow glimmered balefully in his eyes. His mind surely needed easing tonight.

“I fear our venture could end prematurely.” She leaned against the wall next to him, as always both relaxed and alert. Her chain mail vest and warrior garb clashed with her highborn poise and classic beauty. The flickering light danced angelically across her disheartened face. “And perhaps I do not mind.”

Belov had given the members of his inner circle a series of preliminary orders and sent them away. Most of them had their own ideas, with plans ranging from fleeing the area immediately to holding them at the ruined castle, using what minuscule protection it provided. Such decisions could not be rushed, and thus he had waited until only she remained so that the real meeting could commence. It was off to a less than desirable start.

“I’ve worked too hard to let this all fall apart around me, Alex,” Elijah snapped, his voice gratingly harsh.

“When did you become so obsessively ambitious?” She glared at him, but let her face soften. She inhaled slowly. “I am merely saying… I… I miss when it was just the two of us, before we brought my brother and everyone else in. Don't you? Before… when we just did our best to survive and help people. Before all the delusions of grandeur.”

“This isn’t a delusion." He set the knife down and looked Alexandria in the eyes, cupping the side of her face in his hand. She always felt a certain warmth radiating from him. “Six months ago, we were hiding like rats from the witch hunters, barely surviving. Look at what we’ve accomplished since then. Hundreds have rallied to our cause, and word of us has spread through the underground circles across all of Salvar, drawing a small army of rogue sorcerers to our ranks. We’ve tamed beasts from the mountains and gathered nearly enough weapons to supply a legion. And this is just the beginning.”

“But it is changing you, Eli.” She turned aside, leaving Elijah's hand hanging alone. “Six months ago, you would never have tolerated my brother’s brutality.”

“I’m not fond of his methods, but he's unfortunately necessary,” explained this stranger with Elijah’s face. “We need his contacts, his allies, and his money. We wouldn’t have gotten half this far without it. It’s a strictly utilitarian arrangement…”

“I do not care how you say it! He is a monster.”

“Of course he's a monster! Decent men with honor and compassion never win wars. Monsters win wars. I'm not a monster, so I need your brother.”

“Listen to yourself!" She wanted to strangle him! “Eli, I love you, but this is not you. The man talking just now, and sitting in the meeting earlier was… someone else, someone I did not recognize.”

“Of course it wasn’t me. It’s merely the role that I needed to play. You grew up in a noble family; you know what happens if someone slips or shows weakness.”

She hung her head with sad sigh. “Until you wake up one day to realize that you became what you were pretending to be.”

“Given the circumstances, I’d say that the risk of existential decay is one of my smallest concerns.” He gave a wry chuckle. She wanted to glare, but could not; for that one instant, he was her Elijah again: war weary and troubled, but Elijah. “Right now, we’ve got an army to take care of.”

“More fighting.” She sighed wearily and sat next to him, leaning against his chest and taking his hand in hers. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her lips, and she closed her eyes for just a moment. “We are certainly no strangers to it.”

II: Nightfall

"Salvar was rarely renowned for its magic, yet in the War of Flesh, powers both ancient and young threatened to shatter the very heavens."

--"A Compendium of the War of Flesh."


“The wise warrior lies in wait for the foolish. He cloaks his plans in darkness and then strikes like lightning.”

--Beiner "The Storm's Eye", Warlord of the North.

*

When Elijah left the keep, the last traces of sunlight had vanished, chased from the sky by the relentless night. Figures in dark cloth and scavenged armor patrolled the grounds silently and efficiently, contrasting their master's casual gait and tattered white chef coat.

In the movement's early days, he’d tried to hide his former profession, but it had since become part of his curious charm. It was a remnant from his former life, toiling in a tavern kitchen in his old hometown. Part of him missed those days; back when things were as simple as taking care of family and friends and rarely got more stressful than a busy night. But those times were gone, stolen by the church, their agents, and their war.

He had not seen anyone from his home town in years. Perhaps it was for the best, as his trials had changed him. They would barely recognize him, now. Worse, he was anathema to the Sway. His mere presence brought tragedy upon the people around him, especially those he cared about.

He would have been alone in those dark days if not for Alexandria. They crossed paths at his lowest, yet she stayed at his side, holding back the tides of darkness and self-destruction that threatened to consume him. She gave him more to live for than blind vengeance against the Ethereal Sway; she gave him a reason to fight. She shared his desire to break the church's power and willingly fought by his side. Alexandria was a remarkable woman, one whose companionship Elijah treasured more than anything. He loved her. The thought of her losing her nerve and spirit in this fight pained him more than any mortal wound.

He sighed and continued through the ruins. Where most saw rubble, he saw potential. According to legend, the site once housed a society of powerful monks and sorcerers hundreds of years ago. Their members were unrivaled champions who safeguarded the surrounding lands and struck fear into the hearts of tyrants. They kept their domain virtually independent of Salvar's rule for nearly a century before the kingdom's armies wiped them out. It made sense that the people of Archen had revolted so willingly despite their supposed loyalty; the blood of rebels flowed through their veins.

We will continue your noble work, Belov promised, running a hand over the cold stone.

First though, they needed to contend with more imminent threats. Their enemies clearly sought retribution for the uprising and it could not have come at a worse time. He had just commenced the castle's reconstruction, meaning their stronghold remained weak. They could not hide behind crumbling walls. With another month, he could have raised new walls and possibly doubled his followers' numbers. Fate had other plans for him, though. He would need to work with what he had.

“Master Belov!” A voice both urgent and eerily emotionless interrupted the sorcerer’s thoughts. A trio of black-clad warriors emerged from the shadowy trees and approached him. They were Brothers of Shadow, members of a tribal warrior clan that Elijah and his earliest allies had saved from annihilation at the hands of the Ethereal Sway's agents. They were honor-bound to his service and had proved invaluable as scouts, ambush artists, and saboteurs; aiding them had certainly been a worthwhile investment. And the right thing to do, of course. The three knelt before their master in unison.

“Stand,” he instructed, effortlessly slipping back into his confident commanding demeanor. They obeyed immediately. “What is the status?”

“We have completed our patrol, as have the Seraphim,” replied a Brother. “The enemy will be upon us within an hour, master. We counted over four thousand – spears, bows, and halberds, with heavy infantry and horsemen. They have sent groups of skirmishers ahead, perhaps to scout us out or test our strength. A strong vanguard advances behind them, followed by the main body of the army. They even have a complement of siege engines – catapults and ballistae kept in the rear.” Eli doubted such machines would accomplish much, but it did give him an idea.

“Where is their cavalry?”

“They remain with the bulk of the army. The enemy is likely being cautious, as such terrain is very hazardous for mounted knights. They may attempt a flank if given the chance.”

Elijah nodded. “Standard procedure. They don't know where or how we'll make our stand. If they draw us out and make us force our hand too soon, we will be overwhelmed. If we make a stand at the ruins, they will be able to surround and trap us. We must fight on our terms." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Gather up the rest of your brotherhood, the rangers, and the other warriors and prepare yourselves. Keep hidden from the skirmishers for now. Try to draw them further into the forest, but do not openly engage until instructed to. Then, await further orders from the inner circle.”

“Understood, Master." He nodded and then said, "The sorcerer coven seeks your audience.”

“I was already on my way.”

Elijah joined his fellow sorcerers beyond the ruins. As instructed, they had constructed a massive bonfire, over fifty feet in diameter and twenty feet high, with more wood still being added. It raged and roared like a hellish pit. A thick trail of smoke reached for the night sky like a twisted arm. His thirty sorcerers formed a wide circle around this fire, chanting steadily. Belov could feel energy crackling in the air.

The coven contained his most diverse assortment of followers. Some sported traditional robes, others leather armor or tribal attire, and many only wore simple tunics. Most hailed from Salvar, though a few had come from as far as Corone or other, more exotic lands.

Bashah stepped forward from the circle, clutching a short, rune-covered rod of exotic wood and metal. She was a brown-skinned Fallien native who would have been very beautiful if not for her scarred face and missing eye. Her hard life had turned her into a fierce but competent woman.

“All preparations are complete, Master Belov,” she said, inclining her head respectfully toward him. Her accent always fascinated him. “We are ready to begin.” He knew they would be; Bashah was the first truly potent follower to join his coven, and he trusted her to manage the rest of the sorcerers in his absence.

Everyone looked at him expectantly, but Elijah did not respond at first. He let the silence linger, with everyone ready to act on his word; he let himself bask in that power and control. He removed his cloak and coat, revealing a twisting network of old burns covering his lean arms and torso like a spider web. They were scars left behind by his fiery powers, the marks of his magic, and the price he paid for his growing supernatural might.

He nodded, just nodded. Bashah returned the gesture and took a place on the opposite side of the fire. One other stepped forward to complete a loose circle around the roiling inferno: the Seraphim Matron, her mighty black wings folded behind her back. Few arcane prodigies spawned from her mysterious race, but those that did possessed insatiable hunger for knowledge and power. These two were the mightiest sorcerers in the coven, though neither could match Elijah’s power. Despite their vastly different reasons for joining his cause, they both shared the same hope of learning their leader's arcane secrets.

“Let us commence,” said Elijah at last. Without ceremony, he drew the sword strapped to his waist and held it out before him. The magnificent blade gleamed, the firelight seeming to flow over its surface like burning water. All eyes locked on the weapon; every member of the coven knew of its power. “To your places.”

The remaining coven members formed a wider circle around the three masters and the chants resumed, their words rippling beneath fabric of reality. After short pause, the inner three joined. One by one, they thrust their arcane foci into the ground; Bashah with her rod and the Matron followed suit with a golden-tipped arrow. Last, Elijah rammed his sword into the earth with a fierce burst of power that sent cracks a dozen meters in each direction. Steam burst from the fissures.

The ritual intensified for several minutes as the sorcerers poured their power into one massive spell. The chanting reached a fevered pitch as words spewed from their lips, words alien to the material world. Wind swirled in a cyclone around them and the fire grew into a massive burning pillar over a hundred feet tall. Electricity crackled in the air. Dozens of surrounding trees crumbled into lifeless dust in moments as their remaining vitality was sucked away to feed the ravenous spell.

The sky above rumbled and churned and the heart of a storm began to form, veined with lightning and throbbing like a malignant tumor in the night sky. Then, just as the ritual reached its peak, all fell deathly silent. For two heartbeats, nothing happened. A strained stillness enveloped the air.

Then, the hoarded power released with an ear-splitting screech that echoed throughout the forest. The entire coven struggled to control the spell; Elijah’s scars burned and glowed like small molten rivers. The raging flame shot upward lancing through the storm's pulsating eye. It exploded outward in a surge of black, green, and purple, consuming the sky like a virulent plague.

The massive pillar of fire quickly died down to a smolder and the inner circle of the coven collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air. Only Elijah remained standing, keeping his feet through sheer force of will. Blood oozed from his nose and steam and smoke rose from his webbing of scars. His sword glowed like a hot branding iron, but he pulled it from the earth anyway. He gazed at his sorcerers, looking like a demon in the dying glow. None spoke for several moments.

“I will remain and keep the ritual intact,” Elijah said at last, his strain barely evident in his voice. “You all know your places. Go to them and prepare for our enemy.” It was a simple order, given with no theatrics or dramatic prose. Yet, it carried undeniable weight. The coven dispersed and vanished into the gloom.

He looked toward the burning sky, the perfect storm at his command. Just as a mighty hurricane could shatter a ship's keel, he would break the back of the invading army. To make war against him would be to battle the very earth and sky. They need only patiently wait for their foes to draw nearer, further into their domain. Then, like in Sway's false prophecies, fire and wrath would rain from the above, and they would scour their enemies from the land.

Thunder growled above the advancing Salvic host. Sheets of rain fell upon the ranks and ranks of spears and shields, halberds, and crossbows. Wind battered the army, strong gusts knocking men to their knees. The one and a half thousand-man vanguard vanished from the main army’s sight, consumed between the trees by cold mist and inky blackness.

General Arimovi Tsiev shouted for haste from atop his gray stallion. The Men of the Sway quickened their march to close the obscured gap between them and the vanguard.

Nicholi Chzov overheard some soldiers mutter irritably about the region’s freak autumn rains. He knew better, though. He could taste the tang of sorcery in the air and feel its pollution spreading across the heavens. Then he saw it, a great pillar of flame spearing the sky! Powerful magic was at work. He called to his fellow Empowered Priests, his two students. They rushed to him, gripping their own iron spears.

“Can you not feel our enemy’s arcane machinations?” He looked to the storm and could almost feel it looking back at him. The clouds pulsed and throbbed and roiled across the night sky. Growing, intensifying. He knew not its purpose, only that it must be stopped. “With me, my students! We must cleanse the skies! Blessed be the Sway!” The three holy mages raised their spears and chanted the Prayer of Cleansing. Their voices carried far and high, as clear and crisp as mountain air, echoing across the hill like the voice of god.

Chzov wove into the spell the Cants of Seeing, letting his arcane sight pierce the workings of the sorcerous storm. Let me take the measure of the hand that crafted you… He gasped with alarm. He saw the mark of several sorcerers upon the enemy spell… dozens! He could feel their focused malice raging across in its heart, malignant and hostile. He shouted a warning and immediately spoke the Prayer of Warding.

His students were not as swift. A bolt of lightning struck one student with a blinding burst and deafening crack. Its concussive shockwave blasted the other to the ground. Nicholi’s translucent wards rippled, but held. He rushed to his apprentice, who lay face down in the mud, and knelt beside him. The youth had been a talented priest and swift learner, but now he was stiff, singed, and dead. He knew he should grieve, but at that moment he felt only cold and numb, and focused on his purpose. He gazed toward the sky, at the storm that could destroy their entire force if left unchecked.

The storm rumbled, as though laughing.

* * * * *

Elijah looked up from the mountain of glowing coals, which seemed entirely untouched by the rain, and gazed grimly at his storm. He could feel a disturbance in the threads of magic, someone trying to ward off the spell. This meant that their enemy fielded magic practitioners of their own – Empowered Priests.

This troubled him, but only a little. Even a few of the Church's pets wouldn’t be able to push back the storm; the ritual feeding it was far too powerful and the counter-measures worked into the spell were too vicious. Still, he would need to compensate for this obstacle. He circled the fire, tracing more glyphs in the ash and dirt and breathing life into them. The flames flared up again. He nodded, satisfied.

Everything and everyone was in place. He wished that he could fight at the front with his warriors, or sneak through the forest with Alexandria, but so long as the battle raged, the spell must stay strong. He had to trust in his followers as they trusted in him.

Silent, graceful as a desert fox, the lithe and deadly Bashah stalked through the forest. Her brown skin melted into the night. She crept through dead brush and between ancient trees, gliding through pools of mist and inky shadow. The rain subsided and the storm quieted in the sky, like a crouched tiger poised to pounce.

Others followed in the Fallien sorceress’s silent wake. The one hundred Brothers of Shadow, cloaked in black and wielding scimitars and deadly repeating crossbows haunted the night with her. Further back, their comrades in arms, rangers from the Gorum Mountains, took positions behind rocks and brush, arrows notched in ready longbows. She could only guess at their numbers; surely at least two-hundred. In between the rangers and Brothers were three-hundred known by no other distinction than ‘Belov’s warriors.’ These fighters hailed from almost every province in Salvar. Brandishing spears, axes, and swords, they waited to lay down their lives.

The force moved in small teams, covering a surprisingly large area of forest. Quiet and resolute, they prepared to deliver the first strike against their enemy. The assembled force counted for two thirds of Elijah Belov’s followers, yet it was still but a fraction of the hoard they faced. It would be a fell night.

Bashah scaled a tree with silent ease and peered out into the night. With a whispered incantation, magic sharpened her eyes, letting them pierce the darkness. The first wave of Salvic troops advanced through the gloom. So many of them… Her eyes widened. Their vanguard marched through the forest in a tight mass of fifteen-hundred soldiers with the army’s main body surely not far behind. No more skirmishers and scouts or nervous progress; they had come to kill everyone on this hill in a single decisive sweep. It was much too soon, too fast.

Belov's forces needed to shatter the vanguard as quickly as possible and break the army’s will. A confused and terrified enemy could be defeated regardless of their numbers.

Now, they merely awaited signal from the other sorcerers, and what an impressive signal it would be. Their orders stated to attack ‘when wrath fell from the sky.’ The sky churned, saturated with power, poised to strike like every warrior on the ground; they waited only for the rest of the coven members to position themselves. The enemy grew very close, and Bashah anxious.

Where are they?

The sky roared. A great lance of flame plunged from the heavens and smashed into the enemy infantry like a giant fist, hurling soldiers away from a large crater. And what a signal it was!

"Now!" she cried.

Belov’s followers sprung into action. The Brothers and rangers opened fire with volley after volley from their darkened positions. The sky erupted. Daggers of lighting slashed through ranks of Savlic infantry. Embers scattered from exploding trees and fire spread throughout the undergrowth. The tumultuous light revealed Belov’s warriors in hellish glimpses. The wrath of the gods rained down from above and crossbow bolts and arrows flew from several directions. Chaos took hold.

Amidst fire and discord, Belov’s warriors formed a staggered formation and with unified steps they advanced through patches of burning earth and charred corpses. Arrows and bolts whizzed by their heads and the haunting fiery glow gleamed from their blades. In the flickering shadows, they bore the visage of Death stalking toward doomed men. They swept through the trees in a dark wave, reaping their scattered foes. Terrified screams echoed across the battlefield.

Bashah watched and grinned. The true terror had not yet begun.

“Release the Manticore!”

The order echoed frightfully through forest over the distant din of battle, carried on the lips of Belov’s couriers until it reached the ears of the Sulgoran Beast Callers. For months they had kept a clutch of beasts taken from the harsh wilds of Sulgoran’s Axe, a region named after the founder of the Beast Caller Clans. Deadliest among these savage creatures was the mighty Manticore.

“Release the Manticore!” The Beast Caller elder commanded apprentices as they approached a huge metal cage. The beast within snarled and thrashed against its prison; many days bound had left it hungry for blood and flesh.

Ten apprentices cautiously approached with torches, whips, and spears. One climbed atop the box and released the latch, letting the front hatch fall forward. The creature lunged from the box with feline grace and let out a bellowing, ear-splitting roar. They kept beast at bay with jabs and lashes as their elder stepped forward. They locked eyes and the Manticore reared up on its hind legs, revealing its form in the torchlight – the body and head of a huge lion, mighty bat wings spanning thirty feet, and vicious barbed tale dripping with venom. It snapped its jaws at the elder, but the Beast Caller didn’t flinch.

“Cirothe!” he boomed, his voice thick with primal power. “I who have given you a name command you!” The Manticore landed back on all fours and glared at its master. The elder’s control seemed supernatural, and that fact had long since resulted in distrust and even outright condemnation from the Ethereal Sway. “Take to the skies, Cirothe, and bring death upon our enemies!”

The beast bellowed over the churning storm and charged into the trees, loping over the rocky ground and lunging into the air. It beat its mighty wings and took flight, rising above the forest until the main body of the Salvic army came into view. Through smoke and mist, the mighty host marched urgently after their beleaguered vanguard, struggling against raging wind.

With hungry eyes it dove, falling upon the Men of the Sway with savage fury. Claws and teeth ripped flesh and shattered bones. Soldiers cried out and spears broke against the monster's leathery hide. Its tail lashed out, spearing soldiers through the chest and melting their guts with terrible venom. Shrugging off volleys of crossbow bolts, it crashed into the row of archers. Its jaws snapped men in half, and it crushed more under its bulk.

After what felt like seconds, three score lay dead and the entire column scattered into disarray. From atop a mound of brutalized corpses, covered in blood and strings of flesh, Cirothe triumphantly roared.

Then, a voice rang through the bedlam on a razor's edge of supernatural conviction. An invisible force struck the beast like a ram, smashing it into the bloodied mud. While hundreds retreated, one man stepped forward -- bald and stern, his spear and voice humming with power.

Cirothe snarled defiantly and charged at the lone challenger, only to meet another blast of force. The figure's cants and prayers lowered in pitch and grew in volume. The timbre of his voice darkened with wrath and anger. The Manticore staggered beneath a magical onslaught. The invisible hammers turned to blades. Deep cuts and lacerations appeared across the beast's body. Blood flowed freely and its roars shrank to pained growls, until it fell silent and collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

The Men of the Sway let out ragged cheers, until a new chorus of roars echoed from the shadowed woods. With the beast of the sky vanquished, the beasts of the earth took to battle. Dozens: scaly Ashkore lizards with foaming jaws, lumbering woolly monsters with teeth and tusks, and mountain lions the size of oxen. They had come to hunt.

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

“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!”

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

Epilogue

The first touch of dawn bloodied the horizon, smeared by smoke rising from the forest. Elijah finally called a stop to allow his ragged band much needed rest. He perched himself atop a rock and surveyed the bleak remains of all he had worked for. Of the hundreds he had gathered, barely over fifty remained, frayed and exhausted, many injured. Much of his core followers remained, fortunately, but he had lost some of the best and brightest. Bashah was dead, and he felt that loss dearly. And Alexandria… he dared not think of her yet, or even look at her.

"Master!" one of his men shouted. "What do we do now?"

He felt their hopelessness. They looked to him for reassurance to ease their despair, but he felt little hope himself. The weight of failure threatened to crush him. If only they knew the suffocating doubt strangling his spirit… how could they not see the end? How could they still look to him for answers, when his answers had brought them only death and defeat?

We give up! he wanted to shout. We scatter to the winds and pray for survival. It is over! He wished nothing more than to return to the home he no longer had and resume the life long lost. Yet, when he looked upon his followers, his disciples, his flock, he knew that he lacked the luxury of defeat. He had nothing left but the debt of life he owed them all. He needed to show them hope of victory, and perhaps convince himself of it as well. Thus, he stood atop the boulder, steadying his tired legs and forcing determined stone into his despairing face.

"The enemy has dealt us a harsh blow." His voice, though soft, carried over through the chill dawn air. "We have watched out brothers and sisters in arms die and our works torn down and destroyed by the pawns of evil and the champions of lies! Truly, our darkest hour is upon us." He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. A soft murmur passed through the remaining host.

"Yet, we must now, more than ever, stand resolute before the darkness and endure. Our work must continue. We owe our fallen comrades nothing less. Anton!"

"Yes, Eli?" He forgave the noble’s bitter tone; for all his faults, Ser Timko cared for his sister. "What would you have me do?"

"Select two of my sorcerers and three others to form a retinue. You will travel south to your father's keep. We must secure the backing of House Timko… by any means necessary."

"Your will be done." A wicked grin slithered across Anton's face, and Elijah felt like he had loosened a demon's chains.

"Matron." Belov turned toward the leader of the seraphim. "Bring your flock and ten others through the northern mountains until you pass the Talov River. Begin establishing a new base of operations. I will bring the rest through the eastern provinces. I have allies there who may help us restore our numbers. We will rebuild until we have the strength to make war against the Sway again and bring down their false gods." He stood tall atop his makeshift podium, projecting more strength than he felt.

"The enemy sent a great force against us, which only proves that they fear us. Despite this defeat, our greatest triumphs lie still ahead of us!” He let this fleeting hope warm his soul. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could set things right. Even with Alexandria; he wanted nothing more than to throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness. There was much to do first, however.

“Even the harshest, coldest winter gives way to spring, and not even the blackest, foulest night can hold back the dawn. And though we cannot yet see the light on the horizon, I promise you... the sun will rise!”

Thread Title: Red-Stained Night
Judgement Type: Light Commentary
Participants: Christoph

Plot ~ 22/30

Story ~ 8.5/10 – Excellent utilisation of NPC’s to describe a gathering of forces against one of Althanas’ greatest political evils. I especially appreciated the sense of being there, in the moment, of the final, hey, any point of the war between the Church and its opponents. You utilised real world paradigms, metaphors, and parables and gave them a Salvarian twist. You connected very real debates and fears we all experience with the narrative and plot, and overall, Red-Stained Night delivers.

Setting ~ 8.5/10 – After several reads, the only overbearing ‘issue’, the fact that prevented a 9 or 10, was a lack of sensory coverage. You tell us the electricity is a hundred feet tall, that blood oozes, and that storms crackle. There is little observance of what things smell like. There is little connection between senses when they are present and accounted for. You painted a vivid picture. You played safe, but were not afraid to utilise what some might call purple prose to bring a maelstrom or pained moment to life in the reader’s imagination. A strong, concerted, and commendable effort.

Pacing ~ 5/10 – Scene transitions can make or break a story. Fluctuating between simple, easy to understand movements, and multiple switches in singular threads was a risky maneavours. Unfortunately, with such a large supporting cast, and with such dynamic ideas and action drawn into your story, this approach left the thread languishing in some places, and too fleeting in others. In essence, you drew the reader in, and left them wanting more, but otherwise oblivious for the central part of the thread.

Character ~ 24/30

Communication ~ 8/10 – Even perfection can be tarnished by excess. A general rule for conversation is, where possible, to have two speakers talk, and no more. If, and only if, you introduce another speaker, ensure that he or she is clearly marked. When the communication became lost in the crowd, the soliloquy, emotion, and persona in every word was lost with it. It was, overall, easy to follow, and carried weight behind it. As mentioned elsewhere, the speech in post 20 was a highlight of the thread, and the introductory post, the almost Machiavellian exchange between hunters and hunted, displayed a competency with speech that you should look to capitalise on in any future endeavours.

Action ~ 8/10 – You know how to bring a scene to life. Elijah’s flame lives, breathes, and consumes with vibrancy. You are adept at describing action through a character’s observations. Ser Anton’s analysis of the area in post 12 does more to set the stage than even the most finely crafted description. The beginning of the storm’s manifestation post 14 onwards developed a sense of tension leading to the thread’s finale excellently. The only detractor comes in the relationship between action and pacing, as noted in the appropriate section.

Persona ~ 8/10 – Exhilarating and chilling speeches kept persona strong, and characters intriguing. I especially enjoyed your simple, yet hideously effective speech in post 20 – it put the efforts of all involved into perspective, and clashed nicely with the pathetic fallacy surrounding them. Elijah, conversely, remained devoid of any depth. I suspect this was due in part to such heavy and well thought out attention to the supporting cast.

Prose ~ 23/30

Mechanics ~ 9/10 – Near flawless observance of literary, grammatical, and language rules. Be careful in using scene dividers, hesitation in speech, and colloquial speech. If you use *** or ---, use it throughout the work. The typing errors and formatting blips as so and far between, however, so there is little to be said for advice on how to improve.

Clarity~ 6/10 – Though not mechanically wrong, dialogue and run-on comments stemming from X or Y said dragged the thread down. You have an evocative and luxurious way of writing that does not often lend itself to brevity, but consider simplicity in speech, and using your talent in description and narrative. When you try to weave them together, the otherwise ease of reading comes undone.

Technique ~ 8/10 – Choosing to end the thread as you did went massively in your favour. It gave the impression that all Belov’s struggles, and the men and women that died, and survived the conflict are only just beginning to experience true hardship. You could benefit from considering not what you say, but how you say it. Sentence structure is correct in the thread, but word order, and indeed, word choice is questionable in places. It is almost as if you are writing an erotica novel with a poet laureate’s mind. In places, technique accomplishes what it sets out to, but just because you can, does not mean you should.

Wildcard: 8/10 – From talking to you over the course of writing this thread, I know it took a considerable amount of effort and time. I would like to apologise first for the delay in providing a rubric. Second, I would like to apologise for the light, as opposed to full commentary. In truth, I found it more difficult to find fault with the thread than I did to get lost in its luxury. I daresay I have little to offer beyond trite pointers, as my impressed mind can attest, you told a story of a red-stained night, and I finished it feeling dazed, beautiful, and confused.

77/100

Quote:

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Experience, gold, and thread location to follow Judge's Choice vote.

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