C. Sebastian Nutt
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Chapter 207 - Warfire
🕑 Added 2025-07-30 07:22:19 +0000 UTCA crossbow bolt moving so fast that the air visibly parts in its wake rocks through the air. The strange monster turns it’s head, smiling at the incoming missile. The bolt releases a flash of light, a wash of magical energy so powerful that it blinds me. My vision clears almost instantly, leaving me staring at the monster calling itself the Thirty-Seventh, standing with the iron bolt grasped in its hand, the point still quivering with unreleased energy. The bolt shakes, sliding forward through the monster’s bony fingers, the magic within refusing to stop pushing ahead.
There is a boom, a buffet of wind, that comes as the Thirty-Seventh swings its arm. The movement is far too fast to see, it defies everything I have ever seen. I never catch sight of the bolt leaving its fingers or sailing through the air. Far behind me, a man screams, brought down by his own bolt. The monster’s eyes pass over me, pausing for a moment, as it turns to regard the man with the yellow planes of light.
“You have done well, Tanalious,” the Thirty-Seventh says, setting a bony hand on his shoulder. I realize then how frighteningly tall the monster is, easily ten feet in height. The man looks like a child next to him. “You were right to summon me. Continue your work. I shall make certain that it is completed.”
The creature blurs, and I just barely catch the streak of distorted color that marks its movement. It appears above, next to Halford who still tries to cut through the brambles thrown up by Sigrid. Halford notices before I do, his foot hooking one of the nettles beneath him to give him the leverage to turn toward the new monster. He isn’t fast enough, not even close to it.
The Thirty-Seventh speaks again, and as it does, the world seems to slow, all of us forced to listen to its words. “Son of Extinction,” it says, steam hissing through its teeth. “I know your stink.”
I can’t follow its next movement. One instant, it hovers in the air beside my brother, and the next, Halford is gone. My soul presence gives me an impression in the following seconds, the Thirty-Seventh lashing out with its foot, connecting with my brother’s ribs. Halford sails away, as if launched from a catapult. He does not fall into the city, does not stop climbing into the air even as his body makes a hole in the dark clouds that ripples and expands. Fog condenses in the air after him, marking the trail as he disappears from Danfalla.
Then, the Thirty-Seventh falls back to the top of the stump, landing casually next to Sigrid. Sigrid stares after my brother the same way I do, in utter shock of the events passing by in front of us.
“Retrieve the rest of the family,” the Thirty-Seventh says to her. “What is left, at least.”
The wall of bark thrown up by the wooden monster falls to the floor of the stump, disintegrating into pulp. Sigrid nods, backing away from the overwhelming presence of the creature in front of her, bowing her head. “Yes, Master.” Then she is gone, the wood beneath her rippling to carry her away. Her soul presence retreats with her, the flowers littering parts of the dead tree wilting in seconds before shattering into effervescent motes of magic.
Then, the Thirty-Seventh looks back in my direction. Dragonfire continues to roil across the wood, a pool of shifting flames, but the monster is unperturbed, stepping into the fire as if it were wading through water. It stops after just a few feet, standing amidst the flames, looking at me. No, not at me, just past me.
“You must be the servant,” Illigar says. He stands just behind me, somehow slipping through my presence without my being able to notice.
Somehow, the smile across the monster’s face grows wider. By all rights, its head should split open and fall in half. Delight sparks in its beady eyes.
“You know of me, Scion of Tomorrows? Has Hapatia delivered forewarning unto you?”
“Perhaps she has,” Illigar says. He points toward the crimson pillar standing before the monster whose name is apparently Tanalious. “What do you want with a Pillar of Civilization?”
The Thirty-Seventh turns to regard the pillar. The crackling of the dragonfire masks the sound of a piece of bark falling from Illigar’s clothing, clattering on the ground in front of me. I look up at the man. His pointing finger shakes, and sweat runs down his face, but it is the way his eyes stare, wide and alert, that tells me how afraid he is. I mouth a number to him, but he gives no indication that he sees.
“The pillar,” the Thirty-Seventh says, staring at the block of red metal. “To know its name is to know its application. You are of the artificial stock, Sage. Any quarrel I might have does not belong with you. When the veil lifts, you should not enter.”
Illigar grunts next to me, his clenched jaw working hard. My attention divides as I turn inward, searching, counting. The monster in front of us tilts its head, looking at Illigar.
“A detente, perhaps. You truly must be as intelligent as they claim. Stay put, and I shall spare yours and your fellow’s lives. Do not try me on this,” the Thirty-Seventh says.
“You know of Haptaia, creature?” Illigar asks.
“Those that sit upon the thrones do not rotate so often, I have found,” it says. “Your Lady of Futures is known to me.”
“Then maybe you know what she might have told me.”
“I wouldn’t dare to wager.”
“I was told many things, some of which have come to pass, as is ever the case,” Illigar says. His fingers twitch at his side, the remaining golden digits rattling as they mimic the motions. “She told me that the Servant would come, and one other thing. I assume you to be the Servant, but of what master?”
The monster in front of us rattles, shaking. I realize that the sound like the clanking of bones is laughter. “There was a time when it would have been obvious. To show your ignorance is a tipping of your hand. Perhaps I might render an answer should you offer trade. Tell me, what else did your goddess portend?” Behind the monster, the planes of light continue to inch closer to the pillar, now less than a foot away from touching. Tanalious looks as if he might keel over from exhaustion at any moment, but still the monster continues to focus on its apparent task.
“She also told me how to defeat the Servant,” Illigar says.
The smile on the monster’s face slips away. The impassionate look on its face, the flat stare and line of its mouth, are far worse than the smile could ever be. There is something in it, in the blank stare of its beady eyes, that is so disconnected from normalcy that it turns my blood to ice.
“You lack such power,” it says, its voice a monotone. As it continues to speak, the air starts to vibrate on the top of the dead stump. There is no magic to it, simply raw and physical strength. “In this era, you use the crude quantized system mandated by Drevor. To your understanding, I stand a station above you. You have no chance to reach me.”
“Maybe not,” Illigar says, his fingers slipping into the pouch at his side, wrapping around an object within. “But that is why it’s called faith.”
A spark of energy rolls down his arm, an instant surge of mana as he slings his hand forward, the pouch ripping as he doesn’t even take the time to remove the metallic orb in his fingers before throwing. The metallic orb Illigar showed me one time before spins, the sigils on its surface burning with light. I fall into the battle fever, the world slowing as I press down on the alabaster monster in front of us with the full force of my soul presence. If there is an effect, it isn’t obvious. This monster claimed to be in the fourth rank. What chance do I have to do anything to it?
The enchanted object Illigar threw pulses, a blue light growing from it as it nears the Thirty-Seventh. The monster raises its hand, the movement looking unslowed by the distorted time of the battle fever. It makes an edge of its fingers, preparing to cut down at the magical orb as it nears. Golden chains snake up from the wood beneath it before it can swing its arm, wrapping around it in an instant. The elven man, far behind me, holds a strange pose, summoning the chains around the monster, evident strain on his face. The orb of blue light expands, the dome approaching and washing over the Thirty-Seventh. The chains snap, hardly delaying the creature for even a moment, and the elven man sputters, his left hand falling from his arm as the links of gold break. The Thirty-Seventh cuts down, its fingers cutting cleanly through the thrown object of Illigar’s. As the orb falls into two neat pieces, the monster’s eyes grow wide with awareness. It discovers what I already knew: the orb is harmless, the real attack comes from another direction.
From overhead, a comet of burning crimson fire streaks down. My final sphere of black sand, glowing blood red with the strange dragonfire that comes from the lightning in my soul, connecting the fire and steel affixes, plummets toward the monster. Shards of crimson crystal spiral around the streaking globe, whistling as it cuts through the air. All of my remaining magic lies within that final attack, thousands of mana worth of energy sunk into it.
When Illigar dropped that piece of bark in front of me with a message asking if I had anything that might injure a fourth-rank monster, immediately I thought not. I wanted to question why he would even ask, but instead, my mind went to that strange energy I created within the coffin, the one that severed my mana channels so neatly. Maybe it could do something; I just needed time until the runes moved into alignment within my soul. He gave me that time.
The Thirty-Seventh’s eyes look skyward, the pupils dilating as it sees the magic dropping from the sky toward it. It tries to move, only to find the golden chains circling its legs still there, far more links wrapped around its ankles than were around its arms. Its free hand snaps up, a pellet of pure white light collected in its palm. My attack crashes into the monster’s hand, and the world goes white.
I feel the heat first, wrapping around me as I lose the ability to see. Somehow, instead of burning, the heat cuts, slicing through my hardened flesh with shards of crystal. Then comes the sound. I only hear the first part of the roar as the blast lifts me from the ground, flinging me away to roll blind through the air. Now, on the third time I have been tossed like a doll in the last hour, I recover before I can crash to the surface of the dead tree again. My vision clears, the ringing in my ears dying as I take the world in through my soul presence more than my eyes. Wings flailing in the air, turning my body, I get my feet beneath myself again, a solid platform of air forming beneath my bare toes. I slide along the hardened air, the world slowly coming back into focus around me.
The pool of dragonfire is gone, blown away by the explosion of chaotic energy. The full surface of the wide stump rendered black with char. Crystals spears the color of blood stick up from the wood, slowly disintegrating into motes of magic that disappear into the air. One place on the wood is left untouched, a bubble of translucent energy completely unharmed.
Inside the bubble, the Thirty-Seventh stands, its hand still pointing upward. Behind it, Tanalious still concentrates on his work, the planes of light just a few inches from the pillar now. Still down on the surface of the stump, Illigar pulls himself to his feet, a crystal spear sticking through his right calf, ignored.
The bubble around the Thirty-Seventh pops, vanishing. The monster stares at its hand a moment, the line of its mouth slowly forming into a smile once again. “Well played,” it says.
Thunder booms through the sky, a wave of blue-green energy from the southwest rolling across the sky in a flash. As the color passes over me, lighting the entire sky in the blue-green energy, I know it for what it is, a soul presence. The presence presses down on me, more powerful than I can comprehend, but not hostile.
“Your win,” the Thirty-Seventh says, turning its beady eyes on Illigar before looking to Tanalious. “Sigrid!” I shouts into the air. “We are retreating!”
The presence spreading over the world around me grows heavier, the dead tree beneath my groaning under the weight of its attention. The wooden monster, Sigrid, drops out of the sky, landing next to the Thirty-Seventh, a bundle of muscle and bone held on her back. I recognize the thing, she carries the body of the monster that Jor’Mari ripped the heart from, the one that can change shapes. Its body moves, shallow breathes puffing from its open mouth. It isn’t dead.
Without breaking stride, the Thirty-Seventh approaches Tanalious as he continues to focus.
“Almost there,” Tanalious says through clenched teeth.
“No time remains,” the Thirty-Seventh says, sadness in its alien voice. “I’m sorry.” Its bone-white fingers alight with white light as it stabs forward with its hands. The fingers sink easily into Tanalious’ head, stopping just a little past the second knuckle. Tanalious seizes, his full body twitching and spasming. A long and terrible yell echoes from the dying creature’s throat as more magic is poured directly into his skull. The panes of yellow light spiral, moving rapidly as if they are out of sync with the usual flow of time. The walls of light fall toward the crimson pillar, moving far faster than before.
Another wave of light, this one orange, moves across the sky from the east, pushing back the blue-green soul presence, the two colors coming to a standstill above us. The world itself seems to quake as the two presences fight above our heads.
The walls of light clap together, moving over the crimson pillar and seeming to erase it from the world. I know it for what it is; the walls transport the pillar away, moving it to gods know where. Tanalious twitches as the Thirty-Seventh adjusts its grip. Another door of yellow light appears behind the monster. It motions with its head, and Sigrid jumps through the portal, vanishing. The Thirty-Seventh grunts as it pulls its fingers from Tanalious’ skull, tossing the limp body through the doorway after Sigrid.
“A clever rouse,” it says, nodding to itself. “I have never seen warfire lack its potency. Such a paltry imitation.” Then it looks up, its eyes settling on me. “Still, the potential can not be allowed to persist.”
The movement is so fast that my brain only pieces it together after. As the Thirty-Seventh steps toward the portal, its first step hits the wood hard enough to cause everything on the ground to jump into the air. The monster slices sideways with its hand, slapping a stone as it walks forward. The rock pushes through the air so fast that it turns to molten slag, heading for the center of my forehead. Just an inch from my face, the ball of molten rock scatters, pierced by a bolt of steel.
Then, the monster is gone, stepping through the door of light in front of it. The yellow portal vanishes after it, dissembling into light. My mind catches up, and I shake. The hardened air beneath my feet vanishes as the last of my magic leaves me, even my wings disappearing into motes of mana. I fall from the air, but I’m caught before I can hit the ground, a strong arm wrapping around me and lowering me to the surface of the wood. The man in the white and green leather stands over me, one hand pressed to a bleeding wound in his neck, the other helping to sit me on the top of the stump. The man looks down at me, a curl to his lips. Though all of this, he hasn’t lost whatever it is he is smoking.
A bolt of lightning collides with the undamaged circle of wood where the Thirty-Seventh had protected the stump from my final attack. The lightning vanishes, leaving an elven man standing in its place. He wears a suit of armor similar to the shifting scales I have seen Arabella wear before, only, his looks far stronger, the individual scales large and solid. In his right hand, he holds a spear, the symbol of the Ramacalla Empire waving from the green field of a banner at the spear’s head. I know the man as the royalty he is the second I see him; he looks far too much like the prince leading our operation to be anything other than a relation. Looking at him, I immediately find him as older than Prince Sagistan, his elder brother maybe. An aura ripples around the elven man, the same color and feel as the blue-green aura stretching across half the sky.
Before the elven man can even look about, a pillar of white-hot fire blooms in front of him. From the sudden bonfire steps someone I recognize, a one-armed man with a single eye that burns like a furious star. Corinth steps from the flames, his hair dancing like primordial fire, his burning eyes running over the world as he scowls. I feel his power roll across me, taking in the situation in an instant.
Despite the crushing weight of his magic, relief washes over me at seeing him here. I sigh, tension leaving me with the breath. Corinth is here, I think. It will be okay. As I think the words, the temptation to let go of the throne’s power finally crosses the threshold. I can finally set it down. Relief fills me as I relinquish the power, the magic of the throne retreating. The last month of my life settles on me like a sheet, pulling me down and away. I welcome it, my body almost crying in joy as the darkness approaches. He is here. It will be okay.
As the blackness of a deep and dreamless sleep overtakes me, my shrinking soul presence retreats into me. I only vaguely catch the elven lordling’s words as my mind falls away.
“Greeting, Monarch of Fire,” he says, inclining his head to Corinth.
Then, I am gone. The blissful void overtakes me, and I surrender to it.
