“Where even is safe?” Amir posed the question when the two elven women left. “Presumably to the East? I think Hawthorne implied the ursine were coming from the West.”
“Then I go West,” Gramma nodded, standing up and heading to the back of the bakery.
“That is a joke, please?” Amir followed her. He had never been deeper into the building but the current crisis seemed to precede that.
“It is not,” she shook her head firmly. “You should likely run.”
“How could I possibly disobey the Grand Magus’ request?” Amir scrambled to argue. Who wanted to head towards the danger?
“Help me with this,” instead of answering Gramma pointed at a case on top of a wardrobe. They had made it all the way to her bedroom during the conversation. Amir was confused but nonetheless obeyed. It was a long ornate thing, surprisingly heavy too, so he quickly brought it to the ground. A brilliant crimson rose had been carved into it, the thorns on the stem seemingly dripping blood.
“What’s inside?” he had to ask.
Instead of answering, Rose just caressed the top for a moment, then her hand found a button or latch he had not seen and it opened. Within lay a sword in its sheath, too large to be one-handed yet still very far from the largest blade he had seen. The rest of the case was stuffed with what seemed to be crimson velvet. The symbology similar to crimson roses remained consistent from the case as well, Amir analyzed, the metallic sheath bearing similar carvings. Thinking about that, he did not quite react when the old lady next to him drew it.
The edge was beautiful. Brilliant like a star, it shone with enough magic Amir felt like a fool for not noticing it before. Ivory white, almost like bone, it glittered gently in the dim room. Yet when that wonder passed, it was not quite perfect: There were stains. Small green blotches had somehow seeped into the very metal in several spots.
“Amir, my boy,” Rose placed her other hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of the trance. “When they breach the walls to murder and pillage, you do not run. You do not leave the young and frail to depravity. You lift up your sword and swing - until one side is in pieces.”
And there was an intensity to her Amir did not understand. He had always known her as the kind Gramma. The old bakery owner. Recently perhaps as someone biased, to be hopefully shown a flaw in their ways. What he saw behind her eyes in that moment though was fierce, almost feral. So on edge he was afraid he might be cut just by being so close.
“I don’t think I have time for armor. I don’t even remember where I put it,” she stood up, sighing. “So, what about you, lad? Will you flee or fight with me?”
“I…” Amir hesitated. He was so terrified, trembling. Then that was overcome by shame. The old lady was holding a blade, ready to defend her home. Meanwhile, all he could do was run and shake? No. He would not allow himself that. Whatever he was seeing before him, he had to understand it. “I don’t think I will be using a sword.”
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A pack ran down the strange stone road, pursuing the long-eared slayer’s scent. Other packs had already cut off, finding different prey in the strange stone camp, but their's remained on the true mark. The slayer had stopped raining death from the bow a day before then and still bled. That made them salivate, to finally run down the foe that had slain so many kin and rivals.
Then they found someone else instead. Just an old woman in an apron, holding a sword in the middle of the street. It was ridiculous. Women were weaker. Elders were weaker. Humans were weaker. Three times over, they would not fear her. Perhaps they might feel some hesitation if they saw a bow or if the last shaman of their pack told them she held powers. But none of that was the case and so they approached.
The warlord’s ‘tactics’ were forgotten, shields discarded. All ten of them rushed forward. The old lady raised her sword, almost visibly struggling with its weight. The frontmost two lunged for the old lady… and missed. Their claws reached too high and she dove under them, then her sword swung up.
It was not a strong blow as such things would be measured. The leverage was imperfect, angle a bit imprecise, and the strength behind it far from perfect. Yet the blade still sliced through bone and sinew with the same ease it cut through air. Grey blood burst from the two bisected warriors completely against their packmates' expectations.
Their bulkier bodies also obscured line of sight, allowing Rose to rush to the side and catch another pair completely off guard. That still gave the remaining six enough time to get out of their surprise and begin treating their opponent seriously. And in that moment, if all of them had attacked at once, she likely would have been too slow.
Instead, just two tried to attack her seriously. Three seemed keener on reassessing the situation before more fighting while the last one was backing away, tearing a small talisman from a rope band around their arm. It was really just a moment of failed coordination, but enough that it could not be undone. Rose stepped forward, sidestepped the first warrior’s blow, cleaving him. The second rushed in to take advantage of that moment but she managed to just barely backpedal out of the claws' reach. Well, not quite, as it scored a line across her cheek. But in return the warrior was beheaded by her blade.
Their lone shaman screamed in rage and tried to summon whatever magic the ursine used for battle. He never did though. A certain young arcanist had been watching from behind the corner and despite his complete bafflement, he abandoned his futile attempt at an improvised combat spell and instead focused on contesting his opponent’s. He was not trained for combat… but contesting spells was part of basic classes.
That left three warriors staring at Rose. They were weary but not blind. Rose was staring at them with an unyielding gaze… but her body was not quite up to par. Her legs shook from the strain, her hand could barely hold onto the blade. Her breaths were ragged and heavy, nearing her limits… Six bear folk, each larger and stronger than almost any human could claim to be. An incredible feat for someone her age, even if she had caught most of that number off guard. But there was only so much atrophied muscle could do. So much air shrunken lungs could take in. So much blood a weak heart could pump.
The last three were not going to be caught off guard. They moved to encircle her as Rose struggled to catch at least a fraction of her breath. They smelled the blood on her cheek and wanted it as much as revenge. Closer and closer, the circle closed. They were weary but fully ready, aware that Rose’s blade was death. Each of them prepared to lunge.
The arrows hit them in such a quick succession it almost looked like they had been fired at once. One for each warrior and then the shaman. So fast Amir only noticed once they were already crumbling to the ground. Then he noticed Rose following suit and rushed out to her.
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“Are you alright?” he inquired. There was a lot of grey blood, enough to hide any red.
“As fine as can be,” she choked out in between ragged breaths.
“Can I help?” he said, unsure what to do.
“You don’t happen to have a potion of youth on you, do you?” she chuckled jokingly.
Amir hesitated. Rose noticed. Suddenly her eyes were not so joking anymore. In the meantime, the two elven women jogged back to them from however far the arrows had been shot.
“What are you even still doing here?” Hawthorne asked with a deep sigh interrupting the moment.
“Do you even need to ask?” Rose turned her head to her, still lying on the ground, covered in grey blood.
“Obviously!”
“What have we sworn, Thorn?” Rose smiled weakly.
“That was a long time ago,” Hawthorne flinched.
“What. Have. We. Sworn?” Rose asked again.
“You will get yourself killed,” she knelt next to her. “You are not young anymore.”
“No, unless Amir has something to say about that.”
“What?” Hawthorne turned to him. So did Holly. He flinched.
“It’s not nearly ready to be used on humans!” he said. “I have made progress but the spell is far too dangerous to attempt using on a person.”
“What do you mean? What spell?” Hawthorne raised her voice.
“Ah, temporarily changing to a past state…” Holly muttered. “I didn’t realize it before, you are trying to invoke temporary youth.”
“It should in theory undo injuries and disease as well,” Amir nodded. “Maybe better to call it a ‘temporary perfect state’. But as I said, it’s far from ready!”
“Do you have a scroll on you?”
“Yes,” he hesitantly nodded, reaching for it in his bag. “But it’s underpowered. I have been trying my best to downscale for rats.”
“Then we will have to use that,” Holly nodded.
“That’s reckless!” Hawthorne protested immediately.
“Look at her, Thorn,” Holly shook her head. “She will not back down, you know that. She has a better chance of surviving an unstable spell with me here than fighting. Besides, we might need her.”
“You said about a hundred were following you. Are they all in the city now?” Amir asked hesitantly.
“I scried the main group,” Holly shook her head. “They will be by the river before the end of the hour. If they get over to this side they will disperse into unprepared civilian districts. It will be a bloodbath before they are hunted down.”
“Then we need to stop wasting time,” Rose nodded, finally sitting up.
“The scroll,” Holly said, Amir handing it to her. She withdrew some kind of balm from her pocket, applying it over her eyes. For a minute she silently stared at his work. Then nodded.
“It might not be impossible. But there needs to be an adjustment,” Holly said, then hesitantly took out a thin blue piece of paper. After yet more hesitation she gave it to Amir. “Read this word out loud. It might not be feasible but I need you to try if this has any chance of working at all.”
Amir looked down at the paper and there was no word. Those were random scribbles, intersecting lines completely unlike anything he had ever seen. It was not like the Nera he studied, it was… impossible, he realized. Those were impossible angles, boggling the mind. Even though it was on the paper, it was not at the same time.
They reached deeper in and out into the world beyond that sheet. Like spiders, crawling out of an open box, grass growing from and into the soil. It was a still image that moved, depicting centuries - both in the future and past at once. It could not be called a word because it contained too much to be constrained to something so meager as letters. Yet deep down Amir felt a resonance. In his vocal cords, a sound hummed. Several syllables would make a sound which was part of that gargantuan picture. And by speaking them he would become part of it in turn.
“Thyon,” it forced itself out of his mouth, and then Amir was the picture. He was the sprouting twig in sun-washed woods, reaching for the skies. He was the fearless bravery of ignorance, in a world where there was no concept of consequences. He was a careless smile, grinning at all the first experiences that could only be had once. He was…
“Ceanci,” Holly spoke and the perfection broke. Amir flinched, realizing he was lying on the ground. And found himself to suddenly be merely… himself again. Small, meagre, pointless prison of flesh. An imperfect fetter of a mind that had tasted something greater.
“What is this?” Amir demanded, barely able to catch his breath.
“Enough rope to hang a generation with. Too much to tame in a lifespan,” Holly reached down to his face, holding it with both hands so that he had to stare directly into her intense gaze. “Swear to me you will never speak them out loud without my explicit permission. That you will never discuss what you felt or any of this with anyone else. Swear it.”
“I… swear,” Amir said, startled by the seriousness and still reeling from the experience. He noticed the pieces of what had once seemed like a piece of blue paper disintegrating into smaller and smaller fragments, swept away by the wind.
“Good,” she nodded. “Now use the spell, with your incantation. But at the end, speak that single word. Speak it from the very depth of your being, as you just had. I will help guide the magic but it has to be done by you.”
So Amir did, standing up from the ground, taking a moment to gather himself. Then he brought out the bit of red powder and under Holly’s advice applied it to Rose’s heart, forehead, and joints. He prepared the scroll itself and with anticipation beyond words chanted:
“
The ravage of time
of things beyond prime
for moments few
emerge untrue.
Thyon
”
For a fleeting moment that wondrous sensation flooded through him again, then it was all channeled into the spell. Rose stood still as if frozen as it began to take effect. Her skin began to soften, wrinkles vanishing, then gradually turning perfectly smooth. Muscles gained firmness and definition until they reached what could only be called perfect physical condition. The gray in her hair withdrew, giving way to shades of orange, then more and more color, until all that remained was a mane of bright vermillion red. The eyes… the eyes never changed, burning.
Rose laughed. It was deep and so heartfelt it almost made Amir stumble, teeming with that faux youth. Then she paused, a frown appearing on her face. Amir’s heart beat in anticipation. Had he achieved it? Had he failed? He could not yet know.
“Dagger,” Rose spoke, her voice firmer and slightly higher pitched. Hawthorne threw her one which she caught from the air with casual grace. Then Rose stabbed herself in the stomach.
“What!” Amir flinched, stepping back. Rose immediately withdrew the dagger. Instead of blood though, what came out of the wound was black smoke, spiraling into something that seemed almost like a serpent, then dispersing.
“I would have taken care of it,” Holly grunted, already pouring some kind of potion over the wound that was bleeding once the smoke was gone.
“This is faster,” Rose chuckled. “And we don’t have time.”
"Less than you think," Holly nodded. "I am not sure how long this will last Rose, but not more than an hour or two is my best guess."
“Yes,” Hawthorne nodded. “Towards the bridges it is.”