14th Illost, 998 NE
It was dawn on the Obarsk Waste when the orc outriders spotted them.
The salt flat was an ashen-grey expanse under the shadow of night, the little grains appearing almost black, but as the sun swiftly arose on the horizon it was already changing in the distance, glistening whiteness coming closer by the minute. They rode their camels in silence towards the darkness of the mountains ahead; the wind was low, and Ana’s mood was lower.
Not that Phanar’s desire to break camp and get mounted-up before sunrise was a problem for her. She didn’t sleep at night anymore. She lay in Redgate’s clutches, counting down the hours until they arrived at the dragon’s fortress. She slept in the saddle, the monotonous plain slipping by, hour after hour. At least it wasn’t too hot at this time of year. Even still, she was unsettled – most of the time true sleep eluded her, and she found herself wondering once or twice whether this was something the murderer had done to her, some kind of living-zombification…
Even in this at-best-half-alive state, she was the first to catch the subtle breeze with her nostrils, the not-so-subtle (to her) scent.
“Fire basilisks,” she murmured, almost to herself – then, realising what she was saying, repeated more loudly: “Phanar! Fire basilisks on the wind!”
The two of them cast about, and it was only seconds before she had them in her sights. Ord Ylon’s lair was south-east, and these orcs were almost exactly on her left, north-east.
Heading closer, black pinpricks on the white line of the horizon.
“I count at least a dozen,” Phanar said in a terse tone. He immediately started tightening the straps at the shoulders of his brigandine armour, the studded-leather-looking coat he wore over his gambeson.
“Fourteen.” Ana voiced her best guess. “Plus two spare basilisks with water casks.”
“An even thirty to kill, then,” her brother replied, and flashed her a wolfish grin as he wheeled his camel about to aim at them.
She did her best to smile back, but then Redgate spoke, and every word that fell from his lips was like a hammer falling against the anvil that was her skull.
“Oh, I am so very glad you said that,” the sorcerer murmured, his voice slightly distorted through the horrid mask.
The archmage had taken camel-riding in his stride, and, like everything else Ana had seem him try his hand at, he came across like a professional, like he’d been doing it all his life. Whether he was using some of his sorcery to aid him or he was just that insufferable, she wasn’t sure. But now he abandoned his saddle and floated up into the air – huge black wings of iron spread from his back, and, before anyone could get a word out, he beat the wings, sending himself hurtling at the orcs.
“Wait!” Ibbalat called, holding up a hand in a futile, instinctive gesture.
“Let it go, Ibb,” Kani said gently.
“But… my potions…” the mage said. “We could’ve just gone by them…”
“What is he doing?” Phanar growled.
Ana felt she was in a dream. “He is going to kill them all, isn’t he?”
“Of course he is,” Kani answered her in a detached voice.
“Can you grant us flight?” Phanar asked Ibbalat.
The mage lowered his face. “I – I didn’t pick up enough bat-wings… I’ve only got enough for the mountain, and a few spares – I can’t make us fly that fast, anyway…”
Her brother had taken his sword-pommel in his palm, his eagerness obvious – now he flung his hand down in frustration, releasing it back into its sheath.
They’d steered their camels to follow the archmage, but it was hardly the thunderous charge of warhorses. It was five camels, crunching ponderously across the salt lying atop the plain – they were going at a twentieth of his speed – or less…
Her eyes were keen. She could see them in the distance, the orcs gathering themselves to meet the magic-user’s approach.
There was nothing wrong with orcs. The way Ana saw it, they were basically people. Most of them lived in a crude fashion, following the commands of their tribal chieftains and shamans under threat of lifelong exile if they were to break rank – thing was, most humans lived like that, in her experience. Sure, the inner countries of the Realm were all nice and fancy, but she’d spent the better part of a year exploring the fringes on the edges of civilisation; orcs were no different to incredibly big, ugly people. The ones she’d met dwelling in cities proved it – they were quite capable of fitting in, living peacefully, so long as they didn’t try showing their big, ugly faces in the wrong places.
And, just like people, she had absolutely no problems killing them. If they’d taken up arms against her, her brother, her friends, even strangers – she could kill them. She was good at it.
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As Redgate drew ever-closer to them, they had their basilisks pick up the pace. The orange-scaled, six-legged lizards had to run to get their internal fires burning, and the orcs sitting astride them knew it. They would spit jets of flame straight up at the sorcerer, the moment he was in range –
She cringed, knowing the time was almost upon them.
“What is he going to do?” she whispered to herself.
But Ibbalat overheard her, and answered in a quiet voice, “There are… many ways he could choose to deal with them. A few of his eldritches would suffice. Or he might use an essence. Flames, lightning – there are too many options…”
She watched, mouth dry, expecting to see him do something, exert himself in some way – perform actions that would result in the orcs’ deaths, the slaughter of their semi-intelligent mounts.
No. He slowed as he neared them, but seemingly only to draw the moment out.
His mere approach was enough to do it.
She watched in horror as the little shapes in the distance recoiled, tiny arcs of fluid squirting high into the air from their throats, their flesh torn open by some invisible power that seemed to ignore even their clothing. The basilisks were shredded, falling apart into smouldering heaps, lava pouring out of their innards to pool smoking on the salt. The ones that tried to turn and flee were cut down in kind.
The smashed water casks, leaking their glittering contents onto the plain.
She had absolutely no problems killing them. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around what this had been, though. Certainly it wasn’t killing. Killing didn’t always have to have honour, but did he have to spit in the face of decency like this? This was butchery, mockery. There’d been no time to exchange challenges – they might not have even been hostile… Redgate – everything that was wrong about violence, wrapped up into a nice red bundle.
Finally she was sick. She’d been waiting for it for days. She leaned over in the saddle and let it all go, then had to do her best to stop her camel poking its nose in the mess she left on the salt.
The others halted. Ibbalat wordlessly passed her a water-vial.
“Th-thank you,” she said, voice twanging.
When she took the vial from his hands, their fingers touched, and she felt herself tremble.
“Ana,” Phanar said quietly, staring at the shape of the sorcerer now returning towards them, “did Redgate kill those people back at the Sandtrap? Did he kill Pelteron?”
“That’s… preposterous,” she replied. She spat water, then looked at him. “There’s no way. I was with him all night. And Pelteron? Really, brother?”
“’Preposterous’?” he said slowly. “Really, sister?”
She heard the scepticism in his voice and her heart leapt.
We can’t – can’t fight Redgate – he was right, right all along – Ord Ylon will die, and, and we will die if we try –
But she couldn’t make her lips move, force her tongue to voice the words she longed to say. They couldn’t even plan to act against him… his shields would react, and she couldn’t warn them!
She looked into Ibbalat’s eyes beneath the brim of his hat – he stared at her, without surprise.
She looked across to Kani – the cleric wore a small, smug smile on her lips.
Then at last she realised: They’ve known for two days already…
Ana could barely still the heaving of her breast in time. It was happening. They all knew.
They all knew.
“But –“
“Hush,” Phanar breathed, as the archmage slowed, coming to hover triumphantly over them.
Ibbalat cried up at him, “You!”
A single word that drove all the breath from Ana’s body.
“That… that was – amazing,” Ibbalat finished, grinning.
Redgate inclined his head once, slowly, unspeaking.
“But we could’ve gone past them without raising any suspicions,” the young mage continued, stroking his beard as he wheeled his camel back around to point south-east. “If the kobolds have regular interactions with the local orc tribes, they might hear of this.”
“You are correct,” Redgate said, halting even as he hovered over own his camel once again. There was an unusual disconcert in the voice emanating from the cowl. “Your own leader gave the say-so, did he not? The orcs may communicate the loss of their scouts, by magical means?”
Ibbalat’s smile actually looked genuine as he shrugged, nodded.
Ibbalat, don’t, Ana thought. Don’t provoke him… There was no chance of it anyway. Kobolds, talk to orcs? Redgate was showing his inexperience in believing this bunch of nonsense.
Phanar was just gazing at the sorcerer, expressionlessly.
“Continue without me,” the archmage said in a very different, firmly-resolved voice. “I shall catch you up momentarily.”
This time he didn’t just fly away. Something else happened, a red flame scorching the air twenty feet up where he disappeared.
“He… he went to hell?” Ana asked.
“It is good,” Phanar said quietly, as though the sorcerer might still hear them from another dimension, “that he becomes familiarised now with the place in which he shall spend eternity.”
They all laughed, even Ana.
Riding there with the three people in the world who knew her best, she let the tears fall from her eyes; they rode close together, and for the first time in weeks she felt some tiny sliver of peace, a painful reminder of what should have been.
She couldn’t explain. The enchantment still held her, though the caster was no longer present – though they knew his secret already… She couldn’t even tell Ibbalat she loved him too, that every minute since that horrible morning leaving Mund had been a waking nightmare, seeing the way he was looking at her, unable to do anything to make plain the feelings that were like a knife in her heart, stabbing home with every glimpse of his misery.
I did it – to keep you – keep you alive –
She looked at Kani.
“I can’t break the spell, I’m so sorry,” the cleric murmured, “nor can Ibbalat… but with the sorcerer’s death –”
“We can’t talk about it, even think about it,” Ibbalat said, shaking his head; then his eyes met Ana’s once more as he finished, “yet.”
She looked aside, at her brother. She couldn’t stand the furtiveness with which he was staring at her, like she was a fragile vase about to teeter off a shelf…
Damn it all. We’re probably all gonna die anyway.
Throwing caution to the winds, she leapt out of her saddle and landed behind the mage.
She was tired, and camels weren’t the most receptive creatures when it came to jumping onto their backs, but she still managed to make it look easy. She threw her arms around him and squeezed.
Ibbalat looked back at her over his shoulder; their eyes met, and they rode on. She didn’t look at Phanar or Kani to judge their reactions. Their acceptance could be felt.
Their jealousy.
There might’ve been only minutes before Redgate returned, but, for a few minutes, they would head south-east in silence, and there would be no sorrow in her soul, only joy. She’d return to her own camel, and this time when she fell asleep it would be the restful dreams of the rescued that greeted her, dreams not of blood-arcs and spider-masks hiding spider-faces, but dreams of glittering water on luminous white grains, a simple mage-robe with its faint scent of wane and bird-feathers. Familiar. Like home. White mist on the meadow. Miserdell.
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