Chapter 36 – Eye See You

The sky had grown dark over the city of Iscrimo. Black smog filled the sky, erupting from the dozens of new openings that had been rent across the mountainside. A cacophony of lights tore the sky asunder as all forms of magics rained down from the towering walls, the very ground far below being constantly reshaped beneath the enemy army’s feet.

Palmira ignored all of this, dashing along the walls and weaving behind the mages firing upon the army below.

It should have been terrifying. Hell was being forged right in front of her, heat and power mixing to create new flavors of death that she could personally experience if she took but five steps to the right.

But after the initial shock wore off, a calm had settled in her heart. A kind of focus had replaced it, a tunnel vision which let her concentrate on her own tasks to the exclusion of everything else. And, as Johanna advised her, she let the others take care of the rest.

Unlike most of the other mages on the wall, Palmira wasn’t fighting. She barely knew how in the first place, and she’d never done so from this distance. All her training in the guild had been as a mid-to-close range fighter, something which wasn’t much use when on top of thirty story tall walls.

However, it turned out there was a more efficient use of her time than fighting.

Heat prickled across her skin, a rise in temperature that she’d come in the past few hours to recognize in a heartbeat.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” she gasped, barely able to get the words out. “But I’m here now!”

The other mages couldn’t risk turning away from the battle, but she saw the relief cross their faces at her words. With a flex of her will she raised Morte high into the air and—repeating the trick she’d used back when the inn was flooding—she forced the air to still. It wasn’t easy—hot air was a much more difficult concept for her to wrestle with than hot water—but after a few moments of concentration the temperature dropped from a sweltering heat to a cool chill.

The men and women around her practically sagged in relief. One of them went so far as to take a moment to turn and thank her, which she accepted with good grace as she caught her breath. Unfortunately she only had a moment before she was off again, rushing down to the next section of wall, knowing that she’d have to be back here in a few minutes anyway to redo the spell.

As it turns out, fighting was sweaty work. And fighting on top of a volcano that was actively erupting was deadly work. Within the first hour of fighting heatstroke had taken out more of their warriors than any of the monsters. The Firozzi guild was one of the exceptions, as between Palmira and Johanna they were kept cool enough, but once the other captains realized what she was doing she’d been pressganged into acting as temperature-control for an entire half-mile of wall.

At first she’d been grateful, since her contribution to actually killing monsters had been pitifully small. However, after several hours of running back and forth across the same section of wall she was about ready to pass out.

Unlike her, the other mages were being cycled to keep them fresh. Unfortunately for her though, they didn’t have enough mages who could control temperature to spare. She’d only seen one other during her whole time on the wall—a storm mage who manipulated the humidity in the air—and they’d looked just as exhausted as she was.

Palmira stumbled to a stop, realizing only a few moments after she’d started casting that she’d ended up just a few steps away from where the Podesta was conducting his volcanic symphony. The old man didn’t offer her even a glance, keeping his molten eyes firmly on the battle below, but the Rettori Primavera spared her a sympathetic look.

“Palmira, wasn’t it?” the man asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with relief. “Why don’t you take a minute. You look only a step away from falling over where you stand. In fact,” he reached into the sleeve of his robe, pulling out a thin red bottle. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel more alive after.”

Palmira could have kissed that old man, but she settled for shakily grabbing the bottle and falling on her butt. Leaning against the battlement she chugged the bottle between gasps of air.

“You’re being to soft on her,” the Rettori Autunno frowned at her compatriot. “Her job is too important to leave unattended like this.”

“If her job is so important, she deserves the break,” he countered easily. “It’s been hours since the battle began. How many times have we seen her run back and forth? Let the girl rest, I say—killing her from overwork won’t do any of us any good.”

“Yet while she sits here, more of our warriors suffer. Are we supposed to sacrifice them for her?”

“Are we supposed to sacrifice her for them? We keep working her like this, I won’t be surprised if she passes out within the hour. Then where will our warriors be?”

“This battle will be over by then,” she assured him with a confidence nobody else felt.

“Will it?” Primavera mused, glancing over at the invading army. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“I think both of those old farts should shut the hell up,” Morte grumbled to her, before sighing heavily. “How are you doing, kid? Still breathing?”

Palmira—who’d been listening to their argument with half an ear—merely grunted. She could feel the healing potion getting to work on her legs, a twisting tension which tunneled through burning muscles and left behind a feeling of cool relief. She imagined it similar to what the others felt when she forced the temperature to drop.

Closing her eyes, she let her head rest on the cool basalt. It was hard to think right now, her entire body seeming to melt the second she took a moment to relax. The flames she’d been circling around her feet finally began to sputter and die, and she could even breath without her heart trying to jump out of her throat.

Then the wall next to her exploded.

Palmira screamed, jumping away from the collapsing stone. It was only like that for a moment, before the Podesta flicked a finger and instantly rebuilt it, but that didn’t change the fact that if that had been a foot to the left it would have killed her.

How!? Surely they couldn’t be attacking the walls already? Surely they weren’t that close!

Despite herself, she peeked between the crenelations, glancing down at the battlefield below.

They were that close.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she saw how much distance the army had crossed. They’d broken past the villages and forward fortifications, close enough now that she could pick out individuals without the need of a far-eye. She could even now see the purple skin of the demon broken up by her dozens of yellow eyes, and the two Black Knights who remained to guard her flanks. Both had massive bows in their hands, launching arrow after arrow into the sky and tearing out chunks of the wall with each hit.

The Demon glanced up, and for a moment, it was almost as though they had locked eyes.

Palmira fell back away from the wall, panting in fear.

“Yes, that’s certainly a valid reaction,” the Primavera sighed. “It’s unfortunate that they’ve gotten this far, but they’ve caught us with our pants down. But don’t worry, our city is built for sieges. They might give us a good scare, but they’ll never breach these walls.”

“They’ve breached the walls,” the Podesta informed them, scowling down at the army of monsters.

“What!?” the Primavera yelped, suddenly looking much less confident. “How!? I thought we were stable!?”

“We are,” he ground out, the stress of the situation causing wrinkles to crack across his forehead. “But they brought ten Knights with them. I’ve only managed to kill three—the other seven have been testing me further than I’ve been in decades, and with that many monsters down there we can’t risk sending anyone down there to distract them. One of them managed to get past me in the east and tore through the wall. I’ve resealed the breach, but he’s now wreaking havoc on our backline.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The Primavera swore, while the Autunno simply turned and ran east, presumably to help fend the Black Knight off.

“How much damage do you think he’ll cause?” the Primavera asked grimly, eyes trailing after his fellow Rettori. “How bad do you think it will be?”

“Bad. But it could be worse,” the Podesta sighed. “It was a Knight, not a monster. No matter how corrupt they’ve become, they still hold to a code of conduct. We shouldn’t see many civilian casualties, but who knows how many soldiers we’ll lose before he’s stopped.”

Palmira stayed quiet, a sinking feeling in her stomach as she watched the two men speak. She wondered if they’d forgotten she was here. She didn’t care to remind them.

A long, stressful silence clouded the walls, before the Podesta finally sighed.

“Rettori Primavera,” he said at last, his voice begrudgingly firm. “It’s time to call it. We can’t keep going like this, not if we don’t want to risk losing more than we’d stand to gain. Send word, we’re initiating our backup plan.”

“Podesta! Surely not! We’ve worked too hard, we can’t just sacrifice this opportunity to—!”

“We aren’t sacrificing anything today we weren’t willing to sacrifice yesterday,” the Podesta cut him off gently. “The situation has changed slightly, but it seems not enough to matter. It’s amusing, in a way. Our own ambitions bringing ruin to themselves. Regardless, this is an order. I’m willing to sacrifice anything to save this city, but I won’t sacrifice the city itself. Understood?”

The Primavera was silent. And then, with a sigh, he nodded. “Yes, Podesta. I’ll see it done.”

“Good man.”

The other Rettori left, leaving Palmira alone with just the Podesta. The old man turned back to the battle, seeming to ignore her even as whatever she’d just witnessed left her head spinning.

“What…” she rasped, confused. “What’s going on? Are we losing? What… what are you sacrificing?”

The Podesta spared her a glance, but nothing more. “Don’t worry, Firozzi. Iscrimo is a powerful city, one with enough tricks up its sleeves that—oh. Oh no.”

“What? What was that, why did you just—!?”

A deafening ‘BOOM’ shook the wall, and the Podesta said something she hadn’t been aware was a swear. The air crackled with purples and yellows, and the old man who’d seemed so unmovable a moment ago was instantly knocked from his palanquin to the floor.

And then the Demon was on the wall between them.

“Ah,” she whispered, crouching on top of the Podesta’s fallen form. “Here you are. You’ve done well to hide from me, for a mongrel who’s abandoned his humanity. But not well enough. Ah… the glory I will gain from killing you… I can see it already…”

The Demon reached down, sickly yellow plasma dripping from her fingers, each drop sizzling like acid where it pooled against the Podesta’s basalt skin. Even just standing there, she radiated an aura of malice and sadism that could kill a lesser man by its mere presence.

So what Palmira did next, it should be noted, was very, very stupid.

Leaping to her feet, fueled by some primal instinct that told her that the thing in front of her needed to die, now, Palmira raised her burning mace high above her head and swung at the Demon with all her might.

The Demon didn’t even flinch, merely raising a single hand to catch it by the handle.

‘Concern.’ Malocchio muttered. ‘That is not supposed to happen.’

“My,” she raised an eyebrow appraisingly. “What exquisite craftsmanship. And here I thought Artificery was a dead art.”

Palmira didn’t bother responding, still running on fear and adrenaline. Instead she simply let go of her mace, snatching up Morte and shoving him directly into the Demon’s face, and cast another spell.

The Demon watched her do this with an amused exasperation, like one would watch a toddler punching their leg. There wasn’t even a hint of fear in her (many) eyes.

Then the Flashbang went off.

The Demon screamed, a warbling, unholy cry of agony that pierced her very soul.

But Palmira was used to eldritch things piercing her soul, and so didn’t hesitate. Bringing Morte up and using him as an improvised hammer she slammed him into the giant eye on the Demon’s stomach. Igniting him at the last second she set off an explosion directly on the leaking pupil, causing the whole thing to burst in a fountain of yellow gore.

The Demon screamed again, but this time she didn’t let herself get distracted. Lunging forward she drilled crackling nails through Palmira’s elbow, causing it to snap and her hand to spasm, dropping Morte before she could go in for another attack. The Demon’s other hand instantly snaked around her neck, raising her up into the air with contemptuous ease.

“You… dare,” she snarled over Palmira’s choking, ignoring how she desperately tried to use her good hand to free herself. “Do you even know what you’ve done, you mangey mutt!? Worm, trash, scum of the earth! Damn you, damn you, damn you…!”

“HEY, GASBAG!” Morte shouted, causing the Demon to flinch. “Yeah that’s right I’m talking to you! Put the girl down, now, or else!”

“That… what…?” the Demon blinked, before grimacing and raising her free hand to cradle her head. “I… I know that voice… I think…? Do I…?”

“Hey, last warning!”

That seemed to snap the Demon out of whatever had come over her, and she turned to glare at him. “What are you—you’re a staff. What can you even do to me?”

“Well, I can, uh…”

Suddenly, the sky shook, and a dragon’s roar echoed across the battlefield.

And then another one followed. And another, and another, until nothing could be heard but the earsplitting thunder of a weyr of dragons roaring at once.

They crested from behind the mountains, their long chitinous bodies gleaming in the late afternoon smog. They poured from the sky in numbers not seen in an age, not since the Demons first marched on the Pumilios in times long past. With the baring of teeth and the fluttering of wings they descended on the battlefield, unleashing torrents of white-hot flame on the monsters below. Some did not even bother with that, descending from the heavens to rip and tear with tooth and claw at anything which got in their path.

A relieved cheer arose from the distant defenders at the sight, for even if they didn’t know why, they knew now that they were saved.

“What…?” the Demon stared out at the battlefield in shock. “They dare betray—you staff, did you do this!?”

“Uh… yes? I mean, yes, yes I did! Now, release my apprentice, or face the wrath of the dragons!”

The Demon scowled, her many eyes twitching in rage. “You think I’m just going to—!” she grabbed at her head again, nearly whimpering in pain. “Why, my lord? This is not the time—but I know that voice! I know you, I do! Who are you, to have been forgotten by me!?”

The Demon screamed, her attention split between the throbbing in her head and the staff on the ground. The whole of herself was consumed by a foreign rage which she couldn’t fight back against.

Which is why she didn’t notice the black stone beneath her erupt into the sky, instantly slicing off the hand which was choking a near unconscious Palmira.

Palmira fell to the ground beside Morte, gasping and wheezing for breath, while the Demon merely stared in confusion at the stump where her hand used to be.

Then she remembered that they were not alone on the wall.

“You!” she snarled, turning to the downed Podesta. The stone man could barely move, but with every twitch of his fingers the basalt they were standing on continued to bubble and shift. “I should have killed you sooner!”

She tried to launch herself at the man—only to fall on her face, not able to move an inch. Glancing down, she only then realized that at some point her feet had sunk into the mud-like stone, locking her in place.

“You think this is enough to stop me?” she snarled, raising her good hand to blast herself free.

But once more she had forgotten who she was fighting.

Palmira, now recovered, lifted Morte directly into the Demon’s face.

And set off another flashbang.

She screamed, trying to move away only to trip on her still encased feet, falling back to the ground and slamming her head against the stone with a sickening ‘crack.’ Palmira didn’t bother to give her time to recover. Though she couldn’t use both her hands anymore, she brought Morte around and jammed him in the Demon’s already destroyed stomach-eye. Then she commanded him to burn.

The Demon screamed again as she was burned alive from the inside out. An agony which lasted only for a moment as—while she was pinned under Palmira’s burning revenge—the Podesta made his move. A dozen basalt blades erupted from beneath the Demon, carving through her lungs, her heart, her stomach, and even her head.

The Demon twitched. Once, twice, three times. Until, finally, with a pitiful moan, she fell still.

Dead.

Palmira coughed, choking past her injured throat for air. She leaned back, wheezing as she let her pounding heart calm. “Holy shit,” she rasped.

And then the Demon moved.

Not that dead, it turns out.

Palmira scrambled away from it, even as the Podesta riddled it with a dozen more blades. But still it twitched, as though invisible strings were trying to drag it back to life.

“Ah, I remember now… Oh vilest of Lords…” the demon rasped from broken lips, her dozens of ruined eyes all staring straight at her staff. A single hand shakily rose, jerking to grasp at nothing. “…you still draw breath? For shame… to hide from mine eyes…”

“Speak only with your own mouth, you crime against existence,” Morte spat back. “Release this child from her suffering, and perhaps I will kill you quickly.”

“What cruel words…” the body let out a wet chuckle. “…But very well. I will grant you… a single kindness… The kindness… of mercy… hehehehe…”

Then the stone beneath the Demon opened up, and her body fell into the hole, which slammed shut a moment later, a faint ‘squelch’ being the last sound the once proud Demon made.

Palmira stared at the faint crack in the stone, faintly leaking a disgusting yellow pus. Then she turned to Morte, who the Demon had somehow recognized. Then she turned to look beyond the wall, where dragons had descended to devour the carcasses of the army below.

Then, she decided, that she wouldn’t deal with any of this right now. Instead, she fell onto her back and passed out, exhaustion finally claiming her.

And beyond the basalt walls of Iscrimo, night fell, and the dragons roared their victory.