Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
A hundred yards separated the Elven infantry from the wooden puppet men. Reithrese cavalry shifted restlessly, bright banners twitching listlessly in the nearly breezeless morning. The Elven pikemen pressed on, but their formation shifted subtly, with part of their central ranks holding back in a tighter knot. The Reithrese guessed at what was about to happen, and blaring trumpets sent horsemen forward. Their skeletal allies galloped into the fray as well, and the matchstick men lunged forward into the infantry formation.
The wooden men did little damage, but managed to weigh down the pikes used to keep live foes—especially cavalry—at bay. From the left the Reithrese cavalry charged in at the infantry. Hoofbeats thundered across the plains as red mud splashed like blood on the legs and bellies of the horses. In counterpoint the voices of Elven Lansorii raised in war cries dwarfed the Reithrese cacophony as they countercharged.
The Reithrese horsemen hit the infantry on the left flank. Their lead elements crushed the opposition and penetrated a quarter of the way in toward the heart of the formation. Horses screamed and reared up, blood flowing from their mouths and nostrils as if they were figures in a grisly fountain. Some pikes took them and their riders at the same time, but most failed to strike anyone. Reithrese riders pushed forward, urging their horses on as if stemming a rising tide. Had the impetus and momentum carried on, they might have gotten to the group of people they sought and done serious damage.
They did not because the Elven countercharge hit the cavalry wave on the flank and sheared it off. Elven Lansorii, transformed into metallic demons in their inhuman armor, sank into the Reithrese unit like a tent stake into soft earth. The force of their charge deflected the Reithrese effort, directing both Elves and Reithrese into the army of kindling warriors. The bloodmist swirled, and in the thick of it I saw Aarundel's ax clearing an arc in front of him.
The skeletal horde bore down on the Elven infantry. The wind whistled eerily through their empty rib cages, and their jaws bounced up and down as if they were shouting as loudly as the Elves, but no lungs meant no war cries. Instead the clitter-clack of their bones, barely heard as more than an annoying buzz, announced them.
The knot of Elves at the core of the infantry started to glow. A golden nimbus surrounded them and brightened, then shot out a nova-flare. The fiery lance burned a swath through the skeletons eight men wide and a hundred yards deep, leaving two rows on each edge and two ranks in the back untouched as the rest of the horde went from bone to smoke in the blink of an eye. A second jet of magickal energy—this one blue and unfolding into a blanket—washed over what was left of the undead cavalry. As if water, it eroded whatever held the skeletons together. Momentum tore them apart and scattered the bones over the battlefield,
As hedgehogs moved forward, and more sorcerers advanced with their bodyguards, dread began to rise in me. I looked up at the battlefield and beyond it to Alatun itself. Something told me the key to winning the battle lay therein. I knew instantly that I could ride in there and win the day. No more Elves would have to die. No Elven women would mourn lost kin and lovers. And the gratitude the Elves would bestow upon me, it would be without end and without restrictions.
All this came to me subtly, and I accepted it the way I accepted as fact that the sun would rise the next day. I drew Cleaveheart casually, as if I meant to inspect the blade for nicks and cuts I knew I would not find on its edge. I knew I could easily slip away from the Steel Pack and ride around the Reithrese army to Alatun. Nothing could keep me from getting there and fulfilling my destiny. With Cleaveheart and the dagger Marta has given me, I thought as I reached down for it, I will not be denied.
I felt a sting at the base of my skull when I touched the dagger and wondered for a moment if she had not somehow tricked me into carrying a weapon that would harm me. Quickly enough, though, I sorted out the flash of betrayal I had sensed and realized that she had given me a gift more precious than she had imagined. The dagger set with Takrakor's tooth had just saved my life and that of the army.
The spell she had placed on the dagger provided me with an instant and intuitive knowledge of Takrakor's location. It was not overly specific, but I knew he lurked in Alatun, and I could feel him waiting there for me, I realized that the thoughts I'd had about how I could win the battle had come from his mind. Like a spider in a web, he had used his magicks to lure me in. Had I not known, had the tooth and the magick that bound it not told me where Takrakor awaited me, I would have ridden into his trap and handed Cleaveheart over to him without much of a fight indeed.
But I did know, and that meant I could thwart him.
I raised my hand and nodded at my trumpeteer. He blew a call that brought my Men to life and directed their attention to me. I pointed to the city, then gave Blackstar a touch of my heels. "To Alatun and victory!"
"To Alatun and victory!" they shouted as they rode after me. Shijef sprinted on ahead of us, harsh hissed laughter serenading us on our mad ride toward the Reithrese city.
As we swung out around the Elven lines, I knew what Finndali and others must have been thinking. At first they would curse me, for I was committing part of their reserves in a mad romp of dubious value and questionable efficacy. Our goal, as an army, was to destroy the Reithrese, not take territory from them, so capturing the city meant nothing. Its loss might blunt their morale, but how much can the fighting ability of magickal automatons and stone warriors depend upon emotion?
Down on the battlefield the armies closed. Golden lightning met black shields as magicians vied with each other to destroy and protect troops. Steel hedgehogs scratched and clawed their way into Elven infantry units. Sleetstorms of Elven arrows washed over the huge bone constructs, thinning the ranks of the archers riding on their backs. Giants of stone and ivory stumbled, charges faltered, and units collapsed, yet always the forces pressed forward, throwing reserve units in to replace those who had fallen.
"When we get to the city," I shouted at Fursey, "close the gates and hold them against the Reithrese. Cut off their retreat."
He nodded to me and we raced on. With each stride I could feel myself getting closer and closer to Takrakor. Each vibration pounding up through the saddle and into me marked off the time before I would destroy him. His magick grew stronger as I approached, coaxing me onward, and Mana's magick centered me on him as if I were an arrow that had been launched at a target. I would not miss, I knew that, and I could not wait until my target and I became one.
Before us the city's gates lay open as if she were a caravanserai whore eager for our business. I turned in the saddle, and through the mist roiling behind the Pack I saw one of the behemoths begin to disintegrate beneath a withering Elven assault of verdant and blue magickal spears. Its skull exploded as the sorcerous energy engulfed it, and I saw what looked to be the burning body of a Reithrese magus ejected from the conflagration.
The explosion echoed from the black walls of Alatun, chased by a confusion of horns bleating out commands to soldiers on both sides. Skittering across the low grey sky like an aurora, a purple energy shroud originating from the Elven side of the field played through the air between the city and the Reithrese lines. It illuminated and caused to glow numerous lines of power streaming out of the tower central to Alatun itself. I saw those lines shift and the glow vanish as the top of the gate eclipsed the tower and Blackstar pounded up to the city's entrance.
Off to my right the Dreel leaped from the ground and scrambled nimbly up and over the soaring battlements while my horse and I charged straight down the cobbled expanse of the main street. Behind me a trumpet sounded, reining the Steel Pack in so they could command the gate while I raced on. I felt Takrakor's derision for their effort drown beneath a wave of avaricious joy as he caught sight of me speeding toward the tower. Emotions twisted through his brain too quickly for me to identify consciously, but they made the hackles on the back of my neck rise as I rode up to the base of the black tower at the city's hub.
Cleaveheart in my right hand and the dagger in my left, I vaulted from Blackstar's back and ran as fast as I could up the steps to the open doorway. The tower itself, though weathered and decorated in an archaic and chaotic style, reminded me of the Imperial Tower in Jarudin. I knew immediately the newer tower had been modeled on this one. Likewise would Takrakor model his fight against me on the emperor's defense of his title. Not that the sorcerer would fight me with a sword, but he would turn the site of my greatest victory into the place that would host my greatest defeat.
I sprinted directly toward where the chapel was in the Imperial Tower, and I saw the flash of a rainbow cloak lapping at the doorjamb as Takrakor headed in there before me. I reached the threshold unopposed and at first glance was struck by the nearly identical structure of the chapel here and the one in Jarudin. From femur columns to firepit and braziers, the rooms looked to be twins of each other. Then I looked up and saw the only difference between them.
Takrakor, silhouetted against the flames of the firepit, beckoned me forward. His diamond grin glinted in the bloody red light from the braziers. "Come in. I have remodeled this place in honor of you."
Where his brother's intaglio had graced the ceiling of the chapel in Jarudin, I saw my own likeness in this place. It showed me torn and bleeding in a number of places. Broken bones poked through naked flesh, and a huge portion of my skull was missing. It looked as if I had been drawn and quartered, then hacked and trampled. I had also been emasculated.
My voice echoed from within the mask. "I'm thinking that if that's an honor, then I'd just as soon be killing you without any ceremony." I took a step toward him. "You want Cleaveheart, now you'll have it."
The sorcerer brought his hands back against his chest. Suspended from a harness, Wasp lay in a sheath pressed against the sorcerer's breastbone. Aside from a black kilt edged with gold, leather sandals, and his rainbow cloak, the Reithrese was naked and seemed almost powerless. His slender arms and skinny chest proved him to be no physical threat to me, yet the moment he touched my old dagger, I felt powers gathering around me.
"Oh, I will have it, but only after reality mirrors my art." He raised his left hand and extended it forward, his fingers splayed. His body shook as if in the midst of a convulsion, then his fist closed and I felt a titanic hand grip me. It lifted me bodily into the air and held me as if I were as weak as a new-whelped pup. My armor groaned and my chest grew tight. Breathing deeply sent daggers through my chest. Every muscle in my body spasmed, and my limbs drew themselves in toward my torso.
Takrakor glanced upward, then shook his head. "Not at all a match." He brought his left hand down and touched it to Wasp, then used his right hand to pry his little finger out straight. As he did that, my left leg came down and almost touched the floor. Straightening his thumb brought my other leg down, two fingers brought my arms out at my sides, and his middle finger brought my head up.
He gently cuffed the edge of his right hand over the tip of his left middle finger, and my head snapped back as if I had been punched. My helmet flew off and my mask fell away, but I heard no clatter of their landing against the floor. I tried to turn my head to see if they hovered behind me, but I could not move at all. I hung there, crucified, my ears still ringing from the magickal blow.
Takrakor held both hands out in front of him at arm's length with palms facing each other. He kept them spread apart as if they lay on either side of my chest, and when he curled his fingers in as if making a fist, I felt his nails dig into my back. I coughed in spite of myself, and he laughed, then slowly pulled his hands further apart.
My Elf-made breastplate tore down the center and spine as if cheap cloth. He continued to move his hands sideways until a gap three fingers in width formed. My pauldrons stopped progress at my shoulders, so the sorcerer yanked down with his hands once, twice, three times until the leather straps snapped crisply and the armor fell away.
Each tug ground my shoulders around in their sockets. My body gave with the pulling, but his magick held my arms in place. I felt things shift and heard things pop, then pop again as my left shoulder noisily returned to its place in the socket. I wanted to scream, but the pain in my chest stopped me from drawing in enough of a breath to allow me even a weak whimper.
He must have seen my jaw working, because the pressure that kept me breathless eased. "Scream if you wish, Neal—I will hear your screams. I will delight in them, and I see no reason to delay my gratification."
I coughed again. "Not a scream."
"You will."
I wanted to say something foolishly brave or tough, as did all the heroes of song and legend when in such dire straits, but I could think of nothing. I could not even muster a stoic air, which I am certain would have inflamed him more than insolence. I had grossly underestimated his power and was paying heavily for my stupidity. Even so, I had no intention of giving him satisfaction by admitting that fact.
I could feel his puzzlement through the dagger in my left hand, and I let it fortify me. Every minute he spent changing me into the image hovering above me was one more minute in which his powers were denied to the Reithrese army.
Takrakor hooked his fingers over into claws, then raked both his hands down. Finger-width rents appeared in the armor on my legs, and it fell away in a curled, twisted tangle. On the bracers and vambraces he took more time. In them he cut a spiral that left them hanging like a ribbon on my arms. He carefully tugged that ribbon off, letting the metal uncoil across my flesh. Blood dripped from countless cuts on my arms, and sweat burned into them.
With the wink of an eye he made my gauntlets disappear, yet my weapons remained in my hands. Except for my tattered boots, scraps of the gambeson and breeches I had worn, and the circlet of Larissa's hair on my wrist, I hung naked and gore-spattered before him. My stomach pushed out toward him with each labored breath I took.