Another Sitrian regular fell before Healer. He’d lost count of how many that marked, but duty sent him flying to the mortally wounded man.
“Hold on, lad!” Healer bellowed as he bounded through the chaos. “I’m comin’!”
Leaping over the fallen soldier, Healer brought the pommel of his mace down on the side of the bandit’s head. Staggered, the highwayman backpedaled. The priest drew back and swung.
Crack!
His skull caved under the cudgel’s weight.
Dropping to a knee, Healer winced at the sight of the soldier. The bandit’s sword had opened his belly. Prayers of healing issued from the demigiant’s lips. He swayed, body failing from the strain of acting as a conduit to the divine so many times tonight. But he could not rest.
Not for himself. Not for the men. Not for his goddess. Estoria commanded him to go with the zephyra knight. Her reasoning was now clear before him.
Another bandit rushed him. Jumping backwards, Healer brought the mace up in a wide arc. The deadly weight found the man’s jaw. He flew back, reeling for a moment as death settled over him.
“C’mon, lad!” Healer barked at the mended soldier. “This ain’t the end for you yet!”
Grabbing his dropped sword, the Sitrian regular nodded to the priest and forced himself to stand.
Healer’s jaw tensed. This ain’t right, he observed. No ordinary thieves would try a whole bloody army camp.
Two more rushed him. Spinning, Healer dropped and swung low. The first’s knee shattered. As the other raised his sword to swing, the priest sprung at him, and wrapped his arms around his midsection. The air gasped from him as the go’thial’s shoulder crushed his ribs.
Wet gurgles reached Healer as the soldier he’d saved finished the other man.
“Where are they coming from, Father?” the soldier growled.
“Don’t know,” Healer grunted. “And I ain’t no one’s bloody da’.”
The soldier shook his head. “What desperation would bring them to attack a military encampment?”
“None.” Healer shook his head. “They’d be barking to even think it.”
“But pastor, you see it with your own eyes!” he protested.
“I don’t think this is desperation any more than I think I’m a bloody elf, lad. This? This is something else.”
Eyes narrowing, Healer grabbed the “bandit” lying at his feet. His face blued as he drew his final gasping breaths. Motioning for the soldier’s dagger, Healer cut the straps of the leather armor and ripped open his jerkin. He recoiled in disgust at the abominable mark scarred into his chest: a ring of inward facing spikes he now knew represented teeth.
Cultists. Servants of the Ebon Maw.
“What is it, pastor?’ the soldier asked.
“Nothing good.” Healer looked to the skies in search of either zephyrni. “Keep your wits, lad. We’re in for a long night.”
***
Claws lashing, Rosalie snarled. Jagged cuts crisscrossed her battle cat form. Awash in blood, most of which was not hers, she pounced on another madman.
Caught beneath a half-ton of saber-toothed beast, he crumpled. Her bone crushing bite finished him a breath later.
The shapeshifting Yesha didn’t need sight to confirm Healer’s revelation. She knew from the moment she joined the fray. The scent was unmistakable.
They wear the same stench as him, she thought. That deranged lunatic from the marsh.
Instinct raised her hackles. A static current coursed through the air. Magical energies were rising. Familiar but not friendly. Not like Lady Echo’s soaring overhead.
Rosalie flexed her massive paws. Claws biting into the earth, she raised her head to sniff. Acrid smoke burned her sensitive nose, but she had to endure. There was another scent hidden beneath it. Foul. Rotten. The putrescence of the Abyss cursed the air.
Searing pain bit her shoulder. In her distraction, one of them seized upon the chance. Rosalie wheeled, wrenching the spear embedded in her foreleg from his hands.
She swiped with her good side. Her claws tore into his armor, but the thick leather denied an instantly lethal strike. Yet his leg buckled beneath her immense force.
Horror filled his face as Rosalie’s bestial maw opened. Saber-teeth savaged his jugular in the ensuing lunge.
“Ms. Echo!” Rosalie roared at the sky. “My lady! There’s a caster!”
The ground shook beneath her paws. Splaying out her three good legs, she braced.
Horrible wails filled the night. The fur rose down her back.
“Rosie!” Healer bellowed.
Racing to her with a Sitrian regular in tow, Rosalie turned wildly to him.
“Mr. Preacher, sir!” she began. “They’re not bandits. They’re—”
“I know, wee one,” he grunted. “Hold tight. This is gonna hurt.”
She howled as he yanked the spear free. Praying over her, divine grace mended her wounds.
“There’s a caster among them, Mr. Preacher, sir,” said Rosalie.
“You’re sure?” said Healer.
Rosalie nodded. “I can smell it. Demonic magic’s at work, sir.”
“Hmm.” Healer grunted. “Reckon that’s why it don’t feel like we’re gettin’ nowhere. Feels like every time we drop one, two more pop up.”
“Probably not far off, sir,” Rosalie affirmed. “A necromancer, perhaps?”
Healer nodded thoughtfully. “That would explain a lot.”
“If there’s a necromancer among them,” the soldier interjected, “they’ll add to their ranks with each of us they kill.” The color drained from his face. “They’ll overwhelm us with our own numbers!”
A deep growl welled in Healer’s throat. “Few things her holiness dislikes let alone hates, but the undead is high on that short list, lad.”
“We need to find Ms. Echo and Ms. Mira,” said Rosalie.
“Aye,” Healer agreed.
“I think I saw Dame Mira dive that way,” said the soldier.
“Echo won’t be far from her. Right.” Healer jerked his head in the direction the soldier indicated. “Best be catching up with ‘em.”
***
An undeniable ache thrummed through Echo’s breast. Her flight muscles were spent, and her magical reserves were running low. She’d dipped too many times into the wellsprings of magic for one night, and was rapidly approaching her limits, physically and mystically.
Her vision blurred, altitude dropping by the spell. Her wings screamed at her to land. But the ground beneath teemed with blades and death. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to climb once more.
“One more pass,” she thought aloud. “Just one more spell…”
She tried to soar, but it was too much. It took her everything to catch a thermal rising from the pyre below to glide.
A group of mercenary wizards huddled together. Back-to-back, half of them had turned to daggers and improved clubs. A few, in their desperation, hefting up swords and spears they had no business wielding.
More “bandits” bore down upon them. Though Echo had long realized they were hardly simple highwaymen, she’d not been able to get close enough to confirm or refute her worst suspicions. The very one Healer and Rosalie knew.
Raising a hand, she channeled the formulas of magic through herself. Golden glyphs flashed through her mind’s eye. She focused. Drawing from the well of her mystical reserves, she retrieved the bucket once more.
“En-dro.”
Theory coalesced into form. Flashing flames whirled around her outstretched arm. The air whistled before her as water vapor combusted. Boiled into plasma by her will. A resonant thump puffed as the fireball flew from zephyran noble.
Night became day. Heat ripped away from the shockwave of her spell’s impact. The wizards recoiled. But Echo saw none of it.
Spent, her wings refused to hold air any longer. Her muscles gave out. Plummeting from the sky, she desperately sought a safe place to crash, but her eyes refused to make out distinct shapes any longer. All she could see were blobs of color with indeterminate edges. She angled for a patch of ruddy-brown, praying it was a group of Sitrian soldiers.
Stars flew across her vision. The heavy thud of impact nearly masked the splintering crack as she landed on her arm.
Had the ground always been this hard? She didn’t remember it being this hard.
Reaching out with trembling hand, she made to right herself.
“Aagh!” Echo shrieked.
The sharp pain screaming from her elbow needed no explanation.
She turned to assess the severity of the break and nearly vomited. Bone protruded from her flesh.
Ruddy-brown figures moved towards her. Their movements labored and inelegant. The soldiers were as exhausted as she, but still, at least she could breathe knowing she’d landed among allies.
“Help!” she whimpered, reaching for one.
Instinct screamed at her. Her wings, though unable to reclaim their aerial vantage, flapped as hard as they could to propel her backwards. And as they did, her focus sharpened in time to see the soldier’s sword slash through the air where she’d been.
“What’s the meaning of—?!”
Cold filled her core. He was a soldier. They all were. Once. Not now. Not for her anyway. The crossbow bolt that killed him still protruded from his eye socket.
Undead.
Mystic formulas filled her head. She raised her hand again. Concentration sharpening, she called for a bolt of flame.
“In-den-de!”
Pops and fizzles crackled from her palm. Not a drop left. Her magical reservoir was dry.
Echo’s petite form felt like a lead statue as she backed away. Desperation guided her eyes as she sought anything she could to defend herself. Broken spears. Bent swords. Arrows lacking bows. Anything!
The blasphemous creatures encroaching were slow, but she was completely surrounded. Even if she had one last drop of magic left, it wouldn’t be enough. She’d nothing left to give.
Seizing upon a dagger, she readied herself for the end.
[Holy Myria, goddess of sky,] Echo prayed quietly in her native tongue. [Lift my wings to join you on high. Mother of winds—] A sob tore through her. [Please! I don’t want to die…]
***
Kaelen twisted his hips, throwing a cultist to the ground. Dropping to his knee, he cracked the man’s sternum.
“How do they keep coming?!” Kaelen roared to Mira.
“No idea!” she shouted as she thrust another in the heart. “But they’re not thieves! That’s for damn sure!”
Drawing a dagger, Kaelen slit his man’s throat. “We need to rally!”
“Agreed,” Mira affirmed. “Their plan’s obvious. Keep us isolated and pick us off.”
“Cut us off and cut us down. Sound familiar?”
Mira parried a slash. “The Battle of Kurnbrite.” She pommel struck the attacker’s face. “Where Captain Theris,” she drew the blade down, gashing his chest to the bone, “received his commission.” A rising thrust finished him.
Kaelen tossed her his war horn. “Get to the sky and find us a rally point.”
“Sure you got this down here?”
He nodded firmly.
Giving him one of her own, she spread her wings. “Stay safe, brother.”
“You as well, sister.”
Spreading her wings, Mira took to the sky. Cinders scorched her tabard. The stench of her own burning feathers pinched her nose.
A little damage to the primaries. She thought to herself. Nothing serious. Just a little extra preening.
She climbed into the night, eyes scanning for open ground. But everywhere she looked was chaos.
Soldiers and squires collided with the unknown forces and worse. In the havoc, it was as if their own forces had taken leave of their senses. Sitrian collided with Sitrian. Regulars and squires fought side-by-side and against one another at the same time.
“What the—?”
“Mira!”
The panicked shriek reached the knight. Mira turned in search of her mistress’s voice. But she was alone in the sky.
Dawn bright feathers shone in the firelight. Fifteen, twenty men, maybe more, encircled her. All in the red-brown of regular soldiers.
Their blades whooshed past the desperate duchess. She dipped and dodged as best she could beneath each strike, but their ranks were closing fast. Soon she’d have nowhere to go.
Whether enspelled, confused, treacherous, or simply mad, it didn’t matter to Mira. Vivvy had already lost one mother; she wouldn’t let her lose another.
Bringing Kaelen’s horn to her lips, Mira blew the rally call as she dove for her charge.
It wasn’t the ideal rally point. Far from it. But where the duchess fought was as good as they’d get that night. No fires. Generally open.
If they could gather there, they could mount some form of defense.
Letting the horn fall away, Mira flexed her wings to activate the blades concealed in her wing pauldrons and drew her sword.
Mira aimed to disarm and disable the men. If magic or misunderstanding fueled their assault, it would be an injustice to kill them. At worst, if they were acting of their own volition, they could always be executed later.
Zephyrni wing razors sliced through three soldiers’ arms. Binding an axe swing in her cross guard, Mira fired a kick into a fourth’s chest to take him from his feet.
“Stand down!” Mira shouted as she took a defensive posture over Echo. “All of you! That’s a direct order!”
Suddenly, the duchess leapt, screaming like a woman possessed at one of the soldiers. Her dagger bit deep again-and-again.
“My lady! What are you—?!”
“Dead men take no orders!” Echo screamed at her. “Not from us anyway!”
Throwing her shoulder into him, Echo knocked the man away. She held the blade to Mira’s eyes. For the briefest moment, the knight had no idea what her mistress was trying to show her. But as the man rose despite the wound, she understood.
No blood. The dagger was dry.
Mira adjusted her stance. Conventional combat tactics were pointless. There’d be no subduing them. Pain meant nothing. Her focus changed. Targeting a head, she sidestepped and swung, parting it from its shoulders. But the body kept coming.
Darting behind it, she cleaved its sword arm from the body. The dismembered limb began moving on its own.
The pit fell from Mira’s stomach.
“Mira?!” came Healer’s booming voice. “Lady Echo?!”
“Here!” Mira shouted.
She stomped the dismembered hand, wrenched the sword from its grip, and staked it to the ground.
Healer and Rosalie barreled through the battlefield to join them. The Yesha’s claws and fangs flashed through undead flesh. The priest’s mace shattered skull and bones.
“Ms. Echo!” Rosalie gasped as she reached them. “Your arm!”
The demigiant was close behind. Shoulder lowered, he charged through the undead.
His studious eyes fell on Echo’s broken limb. “Can you hold, lass?”
She winced. “Have I a choice?”
“Not if you wanna live,” he admitted. Turning to Mira and Rosalie, he nodded stiffly. “Hold ‘em off. This old lad’s still got a few cards left to play.”
Both knight and shapeshifter obliged without question. The two circled the priest and duchess in tight formation.
Taking the holy signet of Estoria from around his neck, prayers issued from Healer’s lips. He raised it to the heavens. Sun erupted through the dark of night. Holy light, streaked from the pastor to burn the undead from the world.
Huffing and puffing, he fell to a knee. “That’ll buy us a few.”
“There’s a necromancer, m’lady!” Rosalie said to Echo. “I smelled it. That stench.”
“Ain’t just no necromancer neither,” Healer grumbled. “I saw it. They serve the Maw.”
“I bloody knew it!” Echo growled throatily. “Our actions in the Larris Marsh didn’t go unnoticed.”
“No offense, but not really the time to worry about that sorta stuff, my lady,” said Mira. “These things—” She shook her head. “How do we kill something that’s already dead?”
Echo’s nostrils flared. “We don’t.” They turned for explanation. “Even if we destroy them, the necromancer will just make more.” Her eyes narrowed. “We need to finish him first.”
“Cut the head off the snake,” said Healer.
She nodded. “He’ll not be on the front lines, but he can’t be far. Animation magic such as this is, blessedly, short range. We just need to find him.”
“How, my lady?” said Mira. “I didn’t see any signs of magic while I was up there.”
“Well I would expect you wouldn’t,” said Echo. “Were you he, would you risk exposing yourself if someone with a span like yours or feathers like mine was lurking overhead? We might as well be flying ‘round with lanterns!”
The knight’s jaw tensed.
An idea flashed through Rosalie’s eye. “Then allow me, m’lady!”
Popping, cracking sounds drifted from the Yesha as she folded into herself. Her feline form compressed inward, smaller-and-smaller. Webbing formed between her fingers. A thin membrane grew between her hands and legs.
A moment later, a little brown bat flitted away.
“Hurry, Rosie!” Echo called after her. “It’s up to you!”
The hurried footfalls of approaching soldiers reached them. Clinking plates and chain among them, Kaelen led a group of squires and regulars their way.
“In the meantime,” Mira said as she waved to the gathering men. “We rally here and prepare for the counterattack.” Eyes narrowing, her jaw tensed. “We’ll show them what happens when you challenge the Dragons of Sitri.”
About the Author
A. S. Raithe is a fantasy author living near Pittsburgh with his wife and children. Always the creative type, it wasn’t until high school and being introduced to a local bestselling author that he found his passion for writing. He took time away from writing to attend college before being convinced by his wife to pick it up again shortly after their wedding. Outside of writing he enjoys exercise, baking, gardening, folklore, music, and hiking.
