Alaric answered with a thin-lipped smile. Light glinted as Mothros twirled easily in his hands. Theron hefted a gleaming war hammer with another roar. It met Mothros with a boom of thunder, staggering both combatants.
Alaric stared at the anvil-shaped hammer. It appeared to be made from the clearest crystal, and the blue orb in its center hummed as though charged with lightning. Theron raised the weapon high, his mouth open in a roar drowned out by the thunder from the dark swirling clouds above them.
A third of the Pieces of Six. Alaric's heart pounded. It was as though the electric charge from the hammer sizzled through his mind, illuminating a plot that dwarfed the battle, a scheme that laughed from the shadows at the futility of Alaric's plight.
"What do you do, human? You dare to wield Hzekmo? Do you know what you risk by bringing that Geod here?"
The muscles in Theron's arms were corded with distended veins. Glyphs shimmered on his skin as he gripped the hammer. His teeth gritted from the effort, but his eyes flashed with pride and triumph.
"I did gain Hzekmo at great cost. It be mine by right of combat, and I shall use it to smite you with all the power lent to me by mighty Dunnar, Lord of Thunder." When Theron hoisted the weapon, the sky crackled in response.
Alaric felt a flicker of fear as he desperately focused the threads he needed to cut the weapon off from the pure Aether that was its source. As forked lightning flashed, Alaric snarled and raised Mothros in defense. When the weapons struck again, there was a flash of brilliant light. Thunder followed with a deafening clap, and the ground around both men exploded in showers of stone and earth.
For an instant Alaric's vision shimmered as lightning rippled across the shield of Tropos he had hastily raised. He dropped the shield as the Norlander staggered back, and grabbed the handle of the weapon before Theron could strike again.
Scintilla, Dihysis, Tropos, and Regolos. It took the exact binding of the elements to block the flow of Aether. When the Crafts snapped into place around the weapon, Theron gave a roaring gasp as forked lightning arced into and through him. The Norlander dropped to one knee. Smoke wafted from his body, and the hammer fell from his twitching fingers with a toll like a gong.
Alaric shakily raised Mothros. Best to sever the wielder from the fusorb before more damage is done.
"Step away from the king!"
Alaric turned to the red-bearded Norlander who rushed toward him. Alaric recognized the Huntsman from his former link with the slave, Dradyn. Fregeror was followed by a company of his fellowmen, all who bellowed in outrage and fury as they fell upon their king's assailant. The smallest of the Norlanders still topped Alaric by head and shoulders. Their thick, calloused hands wielded heavy axes and hammers, every one painted in the gore of their fallen foes.
Alaric slew them in quick succession.
Mothros passed through armor and flesh, a switch through the smoke of their bodies. As their lifeless husks toppled, Alaric whirled around to stab at Theron, who had recovered enough to find a sword and attack. The borrowed blade shattered, and Theron's heavy breastplate punctured just as easily.
Though felled, the Norland king glared at Alaric like an angry, wounded bear. He spat sizzling blood at Alaric's feet. "Fie on your daemon sword. May Wortan cast you into the deepest pits of Nifolheim."
Alaric shook his head as he raised Mothros. The blade felt much heavier. His time was short, then. Alaric only hoped he had enough strength to last. "Your god cannot aid you on this day. Nor could he ever."
A shadow fell over him.
That was all that allowed him to dodge the savage swing from the Reaver's ebony blade. The armored giant came from seemingly nowhere, pushing Alaric back with sweeps and thrusts so fierce that the air hummed in the wake. It attacked with single-minded ferocity, its eyes blazing with the urge to kill. Its presence was nearly smothering as it towered head and shoulders above Alaric. The air resounded from the clashes of its sword meeting Mothros in electric-blue flashes of light.
Alaric found out quickly he was wrong about the Reaver. It attacked as though not at all weakened by the Night Mare's death. Instead, it appeared stronger than any Reaver Alaric had faced before. As he was pushed back by the sweeping strikes of his ancient foe, he felt something stir within his chest he had sworn to never feel again.
Fear.
Chapter 67: Rhanu
Rhanu ran alongside his four-legged cousins with a borrowed sword in his fist. He was too drained to risk focusing the Disciplines. He felt the threads of Tropos as they unraveled above from his earlier work. They would dissipate soon and allow the sun to reclaim the realm it had been denied for so long. Until then, Rhanu used the blade against the odji. It was enough. He had been killing their kind long before bonding with Titien.
His legs were unsteady, causing him to totter like a newborn drunkard, dizzy and full of life. Every sound was audible, every scream and clash of weapons distinct in his ears. The scent of sweat and blood and fear was so thick that he was surprised it did not hang over the battlefield like fog. The heat was as palpable, an oppressive presence that bore down on the weak and forced the unfit to fall before their physical superiors.
Rhanu roared, loving the sensation. He knew what it was. The memories whispered from the back of his mind. In Norland, they called battle lust warmoor, a state of unbridled fury that overtook a warrior's mind. In that state a warrior was fearless and reckless, almost impervious to any wound besides an instantly fatal one. Most later died of their numerous injuries, but at the time they felt invincible.
It was similar with the Crafts. When used too long or to do too much, the wielder became lightheaded and seemingly ignorant of the many dangers that came with straining their minds and bodies to the breaking point. Many of the powerful Elious had fallen into that state in the midst of their endless battles, destroying nearly all they fought for. It was that overwhelming destructive power that impelled humanity to use the Banestone in desperation, nearly wiping out all traces of the Elious.
Rhanu felt the intoxication flow through his mind and body. He knew the risk, but could not help riding the waves of invincibility that coursed through his system. He knew he was injured, but the pain was a distant care. He was beyond pain, drunk with the sensation of his newfound power.
He searched for a glimpse of Han or Meshella, but singling anyone out was useless in the heaving hordes of armor and flashing steel. The sight of snarling wolves let him know the Nahguals had entered the fray. Aceldama's wall was cracked, the army scrambled upon it like ants upon discarded bread. Rhanu rode the wave with them as forked lightning flashed and struck directly in the courtyard ahead. The thunder rumbled in his ears like the growling from his cousins, and he howled as he drove his blade into the stomach of an odji soldier. His second slash took off the head, and he pressed on as the flames ate the body.
He ducked as a winged shape nearly snagged him. It grazed his shoulder with razor talons instead. With a snarl, he hurled his sword and impaled the Dhamphir as it flew upward. The scent of rotted leather assaulted him as the hairy creature screamed and fell to the earth, scrabbling and clawing the dirt. Rhanu howled again as he leaped on the creature and drove his blade home, ending the Dhamphir's struggles.
He nearly toppled when a trumpeting sound boomed so powerfully that it rippled through his mind. He leaped away as a monstrous head swept at him. Fangs longer than his hand clicked as the jaws of the manticore barely missed. It continued into the press as its black-garbed rider swung his sword with grisly efficiency. The manticore's scorpion tail skewered men and wolf alike; its claws tore into armor like ripe cheese. The beast appeared to be carved from marble, yet it moved as if of flesh and blood.