The White Fox (28 page)

The guards on the parapet along the wall appeared horrified, and civilian dwarves, watching from the windows and open gangways of the fortress, all seemed to cry out at the same time.

Thorin had recovered himself and was bellowing orders to the three remaining captains. “Umrád, ready the men for battle. Ásjá, the Forge. Tell them to load and position the firespitters and empty the weapons store. I want every male dwarf able to fight—including the refugees—armored as soon as possible. Veita, make sure all the women and children are barricaded in the West Dining Hall, with a single guard unit protecting them. And, one of you, send an urgent message to the thanes of the surrounding lands: Thorin Salr is under attack, and we require immediate fulfilment of their oaths.”

The captains hurried off.

Adâ turned to Jack and Lucy. “Get down to the dining hall. Now!”

“No,” interjected Sardâr. His face was ashen but set. He lowered his voice. “That hall is fraught with weaknesses. I’ve tried to tell Thengel, but he’s too confident in the handiwork of his ancestors to listen. There are many safer places than—”

The entire fortress seemed to shudder as the first boulder made impact. It was followed a moment later by several more, threatening to throw them off the balcony. Keeping low, Jack and Sardâr crept over to the side. The horde had almost completely crossed the bridge and were now bunched up about a hundred meters away from the terra-cotta gates. The giants were projecting the scattered debris at the wall of the fortress. Already parts of the stone were cracking and splintering apart. It would not be long before the weight of the broken rock brought the entire front wall down.

Fireballs arched from the upper ramparts of the fortress, showering the enemy with miniature comets. On top of the fortress, cannon-like objects with their metallic barrels in the shape of dragon heads had been wheeled out and were now spitting flaming rocks down on the horde. Several of them struck true, squashing a group of goblins or knocking a giant back into the gorge, but most missed or fell short. Still, whilst the ammunition lasted the horde could be kept at bay. For the time being at least.

There was a shout behind them, and Hakim appeared in the doorway, still in his dressing gown. He ducked and shuffled over to them. “I’ve just been helping refugees into the safe chambers. What’s the plan?”

Before Sardâr could answer, Lucy cried, “Look!”

Sardâr, Jack, and Hakim spun around. Out of the darkness, from the bridge below, dark smoke was lacing through the air straight towards them. It splayed out over the balcony in front of them, coiling upwards. The darkness began to take shape, forming into a tall, black-cloaked figure.

He was not hooded. His robes fitted tightly, just like the coiling darkness. His face, Jack could tell, had been handsome, but now it was anything but. His eyes were so far sunken into his head that, under the dark shroud of the sky, a subtle glint was all the evidence that they were there. Pointed ears were just visible under his wild, beast-like mane of hair, and a scar bisected his face from his left eye socket down to the edge of his curled lip. Though his skin was the typical olive dark of Tâbeshic elves, it had long since lost its healthy complexion, and he looked drawn and austerely pale.

“Well, well,” he said quietly. His voice carried a drawling grandeur that Icarus’s had lacked. “Look what the dragon dragged in.”

“Zâlem,” Sardâr said with a forcibly controlled voice.

Jack stared at the figure before him. So this was the elf who had forced Sardâr to flee his own country and become alienated from his people. He was caught off guard by the same almost irrational hate he had felt for Icarus.

“It’s Archbishop Iago now, actually. And, Hakim, I haven’t seen you in a few years.” He looked the second elf up and down. “The school business isn’t going too well, is it? Adâ, radiant as always.” He smiled lustfully.

Adâ scowled at him.

“I see you haven’t changed your ways,” he remarked, regarding Jack, Lucy, and the dwarves with distaste, “mixing with humans and dwarves. You insult our sacred bloodline.”

“Yet you still choose to serve a non-elf master. Or are the rumors about your Cult’s Emperor inaccurate? You always were good with lies.”

Iago’s face contorted with anger, and his voice slackened to a growl. “He has promised me kingship of Tâbesh. No more will our kingdom be commanded by pathetic bureaucrats who think of only peace and equality. I will lead our country into a new age. We will retake the world that’s rightfully ours, then take the battle to others. An empire, Sardâr. Like the ones of old.”

Sardâr considered him for a moment. “At what cost does he make these promises? From what I have heard, the Emperor of Nexus does not grant wishes lightly. Tell me, are you still intact?”

Iago grinned again, even wider this time. “I’ll show you,” he whispered and clicked his gloved fingers.

Instantly, a pit of darkness formed next to him in the balcony. Out of it rose a macabre figure—a knight, encased in spiked, silver armor, astride a horse of the same attire. Both the knight’s and steed’s eyes glowed crimson just like the other demons’, but the rider carried its helmeted head under its arm.

“You fool,” Sardâr said quietly, his gaze fixed on the demon.

“Abaddon, a seventh-level demon. That is the price you pay to join the Cult of Dionysus—be bound to a demonic familiar. It’s hardly a price, though. Just look what it can do.” Iago clicked his fingers again.

The knight bent low in the saddle, and the steed charged directly at Lucy. She raised her arms to shield her face …

Abaddon lurched off Sardâr’s alchemical barrier, backing away slowly. Jack noticed that Iago was pained by the knight’s impact too, as if it had been he who had collided with it.

The Cultist clicked his fingers, and the knight disappeared in more black energy. “You’d protect these lowlifes with your sorcery?”

“Of course. I have a duty to them. I don’t think you’re familiar with that concept, are you?” Despite the situation, Jack couldn’t help feeling a swell of pride.

“Very well. Protect them from this.” Iago clapped, then raised his arms.

There was a cracking sound. Jack looked around to see a rend in the balcony behind him, the part with him and Lucy on it sliding away from the rest. He cried out, trying to run back towards it, but it was no use. The segment came clean off, and a fifty-foot drop loomed underneath them.

Jack suddenly felt a force under his arms. He and Lucy were being hoisted over the gap and back onto the fortress. As soon as they came to rest with Adâ, Hakim, and the dwarves, they turned. Sardâr was drifting away through the air on the floating rock. Jack made to jump back at it, but real arms, this time Adâ’s, held him. He could only watch as the two old enemies faced off against each other, suspended over the bottomless pit.

The air sliced around the two of them like knives, ruffling Iago’s robes.

“Let’s give ourselves a bit more room, shall we?” Upon a wave of his arm, loose rocks from below leapt upwards onto the balcony, extending the platform by at least twenty feet.

Sardâr stepped back to the edge, taking care to note how much room he had. He knew Iago’s strategy, and he had the advantage in this arena. However, if he could catch him at the right moment …

“I’m going to enjoy this,” his enemy said. “Vengeance is sweet.”

Sardâr did not reply, merely unsheathed his blade from the scabbard strapped to his back. He had never carried a shield before—using a traditional Tâbeshic blade didn’t support it—but he felt a twinge of longing for one now.

“Still using a sword? How archaic.” And with a whirl of dark energy from the air before him, Iago drew two vicious-looking, long-shafted lances. With a tug, Iago undid the clasp of his cloak, and it fell backwards to reveal a full suit of silver armor and dark chain mail.

They faced each other. Sardâr was in full golden armor, his dark hair cascading in the wind. Iago was his exact mirror—covered in riveted silver, black cloak now a cape billowing menacingly around him, his black mane making him look even more like a limber beast. The sounds of the siege below—the hurled rocks and roaring fire spitters—were oddly muffled. The crimson light highlighted the uneven rock.

Then Iago leapt forward, his spears raised. However, Sardâr was ready. He sidestepped at the last possible moment, parrying the edge of the lance with his blade. And the two of them were dancing, ducking, dodging, blocking, and counterattacking through the air, a dual whirl of supernatural swordsmanship.

Sardâr reflected Iago’s blow with the butt of his sword and kicked him hard in the stomach. Iago staggered backwards, momentarily stunned. Sardâr took the advantage. He launched forward, the tip of his curved blade pointed directly at Iago’s heart. But his enemy whirled and struck back—it had been a feint. Sardâr felt the edge of a wicked metal spike collide with his back, and a spark of lightning shot through him. He fell forward.

Iago stepped over him, the edge of his lance brushing Sardâr’s neck. His eyes were ablaze with savage pleasure.

Sardâr’s gaze slipped to the right. His sword was lying motionless a few feet away. If he could just reach it …

“Well, Sardâr, you really have lost your touch,” Iago said erratically, not bothering to conceal his glee. “I expected this to last at least a
little
longer. I’ll raze this fortress to the ground, and the Emperor will reward me with Tâbesh on a platter. Very soon the throne room in Khălese will be back in use. It might comfort you to know that you died to save your kingdom from decadence. Then again, maybe not. You always were a traitorous fool.”

He raised the spear, about to strike, but paused. “Oh, and comfort yourself also that Adâ won’t be grieving for too long. I always had a soft spot for her. She shall make a fine queen consort in the new state—”

“No,” roared Sardâr. He released a blast of alchemical energy, and his blade flung back into his hand. In the same motion he leapt off the ground, flipping over Iago. He twirled on the spot, slicing with his blade. However, Iago was quick enough. He blocked the strike with his spears crossed in an
X
, but Sardâr had been expecting this. He brought his gauntleted fist crashing into Iago’s stomach, and this time he felt it connect properly and something crack underneath.

His enemy staggered back a second time, clutching his stomach, his face contorted with agony.

Sardâr waited, catching his breath. A trickle of blood ran down his mouth, but he ignored it, his gaze fixed on Iago.

Iago, still breathing heavily, raised his arms and let go of the lances. They hovered in midair, soon joined by five more that spun into reality. The elf turned his hands, and the spears all turned to point directly at Sardâr. Iago lowered his arms, and the spears sped towards him like arrows.

Sardâr immediately threw a barrier around himself and felt the first two arrows strike. But they were too strong. Driven by Dark alchemy, they spun around him in a tornado formation, coming closer to his body with every revolution. The whipping air was too fleeting to breathe, sucking air out of his lungs. Soon he’d either suffocate or be shredded to pieces. He clutched the Shard around his neck. He knew what he must do. But did he dare?

Fire exploded outwards from Sardâr’s body, breaking the whirlwind of lances and sending them clattering across the rocks. As Iago watched with horror, the inferno expanded, and out of its peak rose Sardâr, eyes ivory with spiritual energy, enthralled in hornlike flames. The ram gave a beautiful, terrifying cry and launched at the dark elf. He was knocked flat, and there was Sardâr above him, his blade raised, incendiary sparks encircling him like a gigantic halo.

“I would give you mercy, Iago,” Sardâr said in a deadly whisper, “but you deserve nothing less than to die an extremely painful death. And I have no qualms about giving it to you.” He moved the blade from Iago’s neck over to his heart.

But in that moment, the elf had drawn something from his robe and was grinning evilly at Sardâr. “That’s right. You know what it is. Pure haruspex—extremely brittle. If you kill me, this stone breaks. And you know what happens then, don’t you?” The look of shock and comprehension must have been clear on Sardâr’s face, for Iago grinned even wider.

“Not that this hasn’t been fun, but I think this is where I step out. And mark my words, Sardâr Râhnamâ, you will rue the day you crossed me.”

Before Sardâr could register what he meant, Iago, laughing manically, was becoming less and less corporeal, and in a second he was gone with a trail of smoke. Sardâr made a grab for the stone, but it was too late. The shiny black surface collided with the stone and exploded in a flash of crimson smoke.

As the balcony sank gently back to ground level, Sardâr despaired in horrified realization. There was an immense cracking above him. High above, the disc was fissuring, thin sinews of darkness weaving like a spider’s web over the crimson core. It shattered.

Chunks of the same black and red imbued glassy substance smashed to the ground all over the battlefield. Everywhere they hit, the shadows gathered, forming pits of dark energy. So the myths were true. The Cult had discovered a substance—haruspex—that could channel the Darkness under mortal control. But if that control was broken, then there was a direct and unfettered rift through which Darkness could surge.