Athir

The burst of healing from Athir's palm could only stem the flow of blood to a trickle. Any violent movement would rip it back open, and violence was the only thing on her mind.

The air around the kneeling form of Otto appeared to shimmer, and he stood and pulled her bloodied short sword from his own body, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His eyes burned red, like the sky of the echo, and where his face had always looked like the Father, now it seemed real in a way it had never been before.

"Is it really you?" Athir whispered.

She had expected a sneer, but instead the brows of the Father knitted together and his head cocked slightly, as if he were listening to a voice in his head that was speaking an unfamiliar language.

Athir wanted the Father to know who was ending his existence and why. She wanted to list the litany of crimes that had been perpetrated in his name, and she wanted him to beg for mercy. But each breath she took brought a wave of pain from her stomach that made her legs shake, so she settled for the short version.

"You killed my family," she said, holding her hand out and feeling the weight of the white sword drop into her palm.

The Father didn’t even spare a glance at the weapon that could cut him from existence. He just slowly raised his hand to touch the scar on his neck, the muscles on his face twisting in revulsion.

"Traitor!" he yelled, the thunder of his voice calling forth crimson storm clouds that crackled with vivid red lighting.

"Athir," a desperate voice called.

The red eyes of the Father flickered momentarily, and Otto stared directly at Athir, the desperation of his bloodshot eyes speaking of the horror he was enduring. "Do it now; I cannot hold him, he’s going to cut—." Otto’s frightened cry ended in a strangled whimper.

For the second time, Athir swung a sword at Otto's neck. The glass blade swept through the hot air and where it touched his skin, it turned to smoke. Its cut was spiritual, but Athir felt no resistance; as if there was nothing left to cut.

The face of the Father melted, and the frightened face of Otto took its place. His pale skin sagged, and the blood had drained from his face, leaving a sickly gray parlor. His weakened body collapsed in the sand as the life drained from him.

Athir ran to Otto’s side, laying down the sword and holding his head. "What happened? Did it work?"

Only the whites of Otto’s eyes were showing, and the blood from his stomach wound leaked into the hot sand.

Athir willed her healing magic into him, feeling her body turn cold and her own wound reopen as she drew from her own life force to heal him. All she had was battlefield healing, but it was enough to plug the bleeding wound.

"Step away from the traitor; he deserves death," a reedy voice called.

Athir had seen the High Priest of the Father before, when she was surveilling the Father’s temple years ago. In her memory, he was a scrawny old man, hunched over and leaning on a gnarled arcanist's staff. But the figure who strode out to meet her stood tall and proud with an evil glint in his eye.

"I don’t suppose you’ve been secretly working to overthrow the Father as well, have you?" Athir asked.

In reply, the priest reached out a hand, and five arrows made of light blossomed from his palm. Athir threw up a shield of Faelen magic, and the projectiles bounced off with a crackling sound.

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"Faelen magic is blasphemous," the head priest spat.

Athir reached for the white sword, but a crackling arc of red light shot out and burned her skin.

"That sword is coming with me," the priest hissed.

"I’ve fought with arcanists before; this won’t go well for you," Athir replied, drawing her own long sword and stooping to collect her short sword.

The high priest unhooked the clasp at his throat and let his blood red robe fall. Underneath, he wore black leather armor, and at his waist hung a long black sword.

"You’re a champion?" Athir stated.

"I am the champion. These others are pale imitations, not even worthy of being ranked. I am Lavious Flean, the Fist of the Father."

Flean disappeared in a whirl of blood-red fabric and reappeared behind Athir, his face alive with murderous intent and his black sword swinging for her head. Athir threw up another shield as she dove out of the way, hearing the sharp crack as the sword shattered the magical barrier.

Flean hissed, and the air warped as thousands of green snake-shaped entities fell from the sky, their tiny fangs bared.

Athir vanished, and the snakes hissed their frustration as they hit the sand, spitting acid from their mouths. A lump of acid burned through Athir’s shoulder, but she couldn’t waste the power to heal it, instead biting her lip to stop herself from screaming.

She swept her sword in a wide arc, and a line of silver flashed from the blade, scything across the clearing severing the heads of the snakes. When the silver line reached the Fist of the Father, he struck it with his staff with a triumphant yell.

"Faelen magic is weak," he crooned.

Athir’s form began to rematerialize, and she reached out to pull the sand around her body, encasing herself in a ten-foot-high sand giant. Flean made a contemptuous noise and slammed his staff on the floor, causing the sand figure to stumble. He cracked the staff down again, and the sand around Athir shattered into thousands of shards of glass.

Athir let a wave of pure force magic erupt from her body like a bomb, sending the falling glass shards shredding outward. Flean’s shield was too late, and the glass sliced deep cuts into his face.

Athir was running out of time; the blood from her wound was a hot trickle down her leg that left sticky footprints on the sand. Instinctively, she pulled up a third shield, but Flean didn’t attack; he just stood very still, looking around the clearing with his eyes narrowed.

"This is interesting," Flean said.

With a rustle of feathers, Hendra alighted on a rocky outcropping, giving a small hoot.

The Fist of the Father moved his arcanist’s staff around in a curious pattern and cocked his head to one side. "A illusion?"

In truth, Athir didn’t know what it was; Hendra’s ability was a mystery to her. The bird of legend had been with Athir for as long as she could remember, although none of her friends or family had been able to see the small owl. It was only when Mayam revealed the truth about Athir’s ancestor, Ostred, that it all began to make sense.

Now the large, round eyes of the magical companion of the continent's greatest archanist were locked onto the Fist of the Father.

Using the distraction, Athir darted forward and tried once again to seize the white sword, but the crackling energy caused her whole arm to go numb. Flean would have to be dealt with before she could retrieve it.

The priest grasped at something that Athir couldn’t see, not even flinching as the skin of his palm was sliced open and blood splurged out. "An alternate reality then," he mused, healing the wound.

The priest sheathed his sword and raised the staff in both hands as Hendra gave a warning cry.

"Break," Flean commanded.

A jagged line ripped the fabric of reality in two, revealing dual images of the Fist of the Father: one standing with his arms raised clutching the staff, the other stepping out, his hungry eyes fixed on Athir.

"It is a shame I have to kill you; you have proven most resourceful," Flean said.

Athir tried to pull open a window to the Echo, desperately trying to flee, but her powers failed.

Flean studied Athir, his long finger tapping on his thin lips. "The Faelen ley line is far from here; they redirected most of it to their prison. Why don't you yield; you have nothing left."

"Why don’t you go and Fu–"

The Fist of the Father snarled and moved forward with such speed that he was little more than a blur. His fist sank into Athir’s gut, throwing her across the clearing and slamming her against the rocky wall.

Flean picked up the white sword, gazing at the smoke-like blade. "Ironic, that in crafting this blade, the Faelen created the key to building the Father's power. You know, I once struck down a god with this blade, and since then I have cut off dozens of champions. But I have never severed the connection of a Faelen champion, you will be an interesting study."

Flean stalked towards Athir like the spectre of death and as he raised the sword, the air behind him was torn open and the red light of the Echo bled out onto the sand of the mortal world.