Therrador shook his head and looked to the magician beside him. He squinted against the Mourning Sword’s blinding glow and raised his hand to block it from his eyes as he realized it was the blade’s golden light he’d seen upon the Archon’s face, reminding him of the truth of her. Athryn lowered the sword and fell to his knees, lips moving with the words of a spell, and Therrador shook the last of the woman’s deception from his head.
He knew what he needed to do.
The king gritted his teeth and moved forward as the undead throng rushed from around the Archon. The wall of mist and snow descended on them, enveloping them all.
***
When the mist rolled forward, enshrouding the magician and the king, Emeline pulled Graymon close. Iana, hugged tight against her chest, cried and protested; Graymon stared wide-eyed as his father disappeared in the fog.
The white mist moved inexorably forward, devouring the dead and the living, the earth and the sky with its advance. The day dimmed before it, the quake of magic shaking the ground quieted beneath it.
A wisp of mist touched Emeline’s face, its tendril cold against her cheek like the caress of a bony finger. She flinched away. It touched her again, this time on the head, a hand smoothing her hair. She felt Graymon tense in her grasp-he felt it, too, the way the icy fingers of fog acted in the manner of a living thing.
“Close your eyes,” Emeline said to Graymon as she did the same and put her hand over Iana’s. “Hold your breath.”
She felt the mist envelop them, its cold touch coddling them. With it came silence. She heard only the beat of her own heart in her ears, the pulse of the blood in her veins. Iana made no more sound, Graymon was silent, the clash and clang of battle ceased. Fearful the mist might be poisonous, Emeline clung desperately to the breath in her chest until her lungs burned and she could hold it no more. In the deathly quiet, air whooshed as it escaped her lungs, then whistled as it entered her mouth and found its way into her chest.
Then she was floating.
The swirl of snow and mist lifted her, held her aloft like a cork floating on a lake, bobbing gently but neither rising to the sky nor sinking beneath the surface. Her arms dangled loose at her sides. At first, she felt the pressure of Iana and Graymon against her, but that lifted, too, as the mist cradled them. In the back of her mind, she knew she should be concerned they were no longer with her, but she couldn’t bring herself to pay attention to the tiny voice of warning.
The mist will take care of them.
And she felt assured it would.
She floated for a time she couldn’t fathom, the air around her rejuvenating and refreshing her until the return of sound took it from her.
It began a far off rumble, in the manner of a thunder storm rolling in from the sea, but it grew from a rumble to a growl, then a growl to a roar that filled her ears, crowded her head and pulsed behind her eyes.
Emeline’s eyes snapped open to find herself lying on the ground. The rumble-roar shook the ground, rattled her teeth; the mist swept up and up, a twisting whirlpool in the air that collected and concentrated before it disappeared.
It stole her breath and, with it, the scream of despair when she realized the children were gone.
***
The muddy ground squelched under Athryn’s knees and his lips moved to call forth words to prime his magic and harness the power within him. His hand fell to his chest and his finger traced the tattoos etched across it, frantically and fruitlessly scanning them before moving to the ones on his arms. He found no spell that would help against Sheyndust’s awful power.
There is but one thing to do.
He watched Therrador engage the troop of undead soldiers until the mist descended over everything, smudging the king and his adversaries first to a blur, then hiding them completely. Athryn breathed deep and closed his eyes, readying himself, but the distance between himself and Khirro and Graymon was great, the difficulty of the transfer extreme. The yards of flattened grass, corpses, undead monsters and living soldiers that separated them diminished the chances of success. King Braymon might end up anywhere, or nowhere.
I have to try. It is our last chance.
His finger found the proper incantation inscribed on his abdomen again and the words began, bringing with them the power he’d felt before, returning it as strong as before Therrador’s touch interrupted him. The energy pulsed through his veins, taking the place of his blood; it gathered in his limbs, replacing his muscles; it reverberated in his head, supplanting his thoughts. His finger followed the cursive letters, his lips continued to chant, but his world became the power filling him, threatening to spill out of him.
“Athryn.”
The word sounded crisp and clear through the thrum of power in his ears, like a church bell struck on the dawn of a snow-frozen winter day. The magician opened his eyes.
At first, the white fog filled his vision. Athryn wondered if it was the mist he’d seen descend over Therrador and the Kanosee soldiers, or the same whiteness that took him when he lay dying in the forest, his throat opened by a Kanosee dagger. His eyes flicked side to side and found nothing to see. No more words were spoken, nor did he hear the chant intoned by his own mouth, though his lips still moved.
Two figures stepped out of the fog to stand in front of him. Athryn nodded.
“Darestat. Elyea.” He licked his lips. “So I am dead, then.”
Neither spoke, not out loud, but he heard Elyea’s voice in his head.
Thank you.
He parted his lips to ask what she meant, or to beg for a few more moments to complete his spell and do all in his power to save the kingdom, but the Necromancer took a step. The old man moved like liquid, flowing toward him rather than walking. Athryn stood to meet him, grudgingly ready for the journey to his final destination.
Darestat paused a pace away from Athryn and their gazes met. The magician breathed deeply through his nose, bracing for whatever it meant to be taken to the fields of the dead, but the Necromancer’s figure wavered like heat rising over distant fields on a scorching summer day, and the old man stepped forward, into him.
Athryn’s body stiffened. He felt Darestat in him, as though the magician was merely a shirt and breeches the Necromancer put on. The power coursing through him combined with the feel of the man within him bulged Athryn’s skin and flexed his bones. His body jerked, his gut twisted with cramps. He bent over and retched.
An instant later, the power took over, soothing him, invigorating him. He straightened and stared straight ahead; Elyea was gone, but he saw figures moving within the mist. Swords flashed, blood flowed. In the middle of them, he picked out Therrador, his blade a blur of movement as he cut down undead after undead, made living soldiers into dead ones. Beyond him, Sheyndust swung her staff, its green light a sickly halo about her head. She smiled and laughed.
Athryn raised the Mourning Sword and took a step; the earth trembled beneath his boot. He set his jaw, lowered his head, and charged into the fray, each step of his advance shaking the ground.
The Archon looked up and her smile disappeared.
***
The earth rumbled beneath Khirro and he struggled his eyes open, the action of fluttering his eyelids made difficult by tacky blood and crusted mud. His fingers were numb, his face cold; the ache in his body suffused his bones.
He drew a breath through his nose and smelled the dirt his face lay upon, the blood leaking from him, and another acrid odor he’d come to recognize: the bitter scent of magic tainting the air.
He blinked twice to focus his eyes and saw the man standing over him. The gleam of his shaven head rivaled the sheen of his silver armor, the chest plate decorated shoulder to shoulder with green enameled ivy-the armor Khirro had removed the day he carried him to the Shaman. King Braymon put his hands on his hips and regarded Khirro.