Chapter One Hundred
The ‘Blood’ in Blood Magic
Cloaked in mystical shade, Oliver and his Legacies stepped silently between the rows and rows of Obthraie, waiting dormant like a crop of statues. The saboteurs dared not to breathe too loud or step too clumsily as they inched down the lines of the battalion, spying the central, open-aired collection of weapon racks and other armaments.
Oliver bound the three of them to the shadows as the pain of his magic grated along the surface of his bones, and he used every ounce of will-power to keep moving forward.
They crept between the ranks of soldiers down a particular open path and slipped quietly into the clearing where a dozen racks of perhaps a hundred weapons each were placed. Directly ahead and to their left were droves and droves of more Soiltorn warriors, sleeping upright like flash-frozen mummies, and immediately to their right were no less than a horde of a hundred Shade Hounds, all slumped together in a sprawling heap. Beyond them, dozens of carriage-sized Mountain Wolves snored to the tune of small avalanches.
Oliver urged Syon and Royston ahead, and in their shadow-realm, he watched their misty outlines raise their hands and conjure a dark, erratic haze to the surface of their palms. As the Arcancy flowed through the three of them in unison, Oliver felt some of the weight of his pain alleviate and the pressure against his temples faded a touch.
Syon moved forward and lightly caressed her hand over the foreign weapons. She was born with a power over the serenity of others, It had taken a great deal of time, but she managed to invert her control over calmness and focus it into panic and fear. As her mind walked over thoughts of corrosion and weakness, the stone armaments began to glow like they sat above a forge. Briefly they simmered, and Oliver found himself repulsed by even the sight of them, before he realised the curse-magic was working its charm.
Royston’s magic was within the same tree but hung upon a separate branch. His Arcancy was the manipulation of doubt. It seemed to snake around the dark tools of destruction, kissing them with whispers of mystic energy. His Arcancy was not physically corruptive, but emotionally so. Every weapon his power touched would infect its handler with an unshakable doubt. Those who laid a grasp upon them would be overwhelmed with thoughts of uncertainty, both in the craftsmanship of the devices, but in the war effort, their allies, everything and anything they had control over which to think. Royston had mentioned he had no idea whether Nikereus’ Heart Stone would overpower the curse-work or not, but they figured it was worth a shot, if nothing else. The moment they’d both finished their enchantments, the weapons glowed for the space of a heartbeat, then faded back to their dull, black tint, leaving no one the wiser.
The trio moved through the camp, silent as the drifting clouds above when rain began to drizzle, thickening the mud beneath their feet and filling ever step with some caution. This slowed them down somewhat, but the noise of the growing storm covered their occasional slip-ups. By the time the three Legacies made their way back out of the thicket of creatures, Oliver could taste more blood than rain.
They slowly inched back up the hill, nervously traversing the slick mud and Oliver felt his entire torso quivering as he shook his head in silence. ”We have to stop.”
Royston looked at him and then back down at the army, no more than fifty feet away. “Just hold on for a minute!”
Oliver couldn’t even bear the strength to reply and the agony moving through him was like rods of steel being pushed through every thicket of muscle in his body. His knees gave way.
Royston and Syon narrowly caught him, panicking as they tried to drag him further up the hill while his Arcancy began to flicker in his veins.
Syon grabbed him more firmly under his arms and they ripped him up the hill as the cloak of darkness vanished, exposing them all to the night again. She pulled the three of them to ground and threw her black cloak over the lot of them.
Royston and Syon stared at each in terrified silence, waiting to hear the army awaken, but the terrible sound never came. Between them, Oliver laying twitching and breathing faintly as he opened his eyes again slowly. Rain thrummed down on the dark cloak held over them as Syon looked down to Oliver.
“Swordsman, we can’t do this without you. We have to get to the next weapon depot. Can you do it?”
Oliver looked up to his companions in the shadow and saw the blood mingled with rain dripping down their faces and he gritted his teeth. “It feels like every step I take is through molten glass.”
Royston shook his head and peaked out under the cloak. He peered at the dark weapon caches in the distance but the concealment over the others intermixed with the shadows of the night thankfully made them invisible.
“If his Arcancy fails when we’re down there, we’re done for. We need to call this off.”
Syon looked at Royston with a hardened glare. “Roy, that’s not an option. Our job is to go down there and deal with those weapons. If we don’t, there’s going to be a thousand armed Soiltorn on the field, twice as dangerous than otherwise!”
Oliver nodded, his stomach twitching and his hands tensed into knots. “She’s right.”
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“What if you can’t?” Royston asked, a bead of sweat trickling down his brow.
Oliver glanced and Syon and said seriously, “We’re Legacies, aren’t we? We’ll sort it. Ready?”
Syon took a small moment shaking out her fingers and took his hand. Royston let out a timid breath as he grabbed Oliver’s left, squeezing it tightly, and before Oliver’s uncertainty could bloom further, the trio vanished in a curtain of smoke.
The Legacies began trudging along the heights of the sloping hill, carefully making their way over to the next encampment of Nikereus’ army.
The rainfall began blowing in sheets of water as wind whipped across the top of the valley.
The Legacies slowed their steps as they approached the next column of Soiltorn, and before they even made it to the rear of the battalion, Oliver’s breaths became sharp.
The two saboteurs towed Oliver nimbly through the dormant lines of Obthraie, ensuring he didn’t brush shoulders with any Creations as they bee-lined for the weapons’ cache.
Unlike the others, this depot had a large, dark mound blocking its entryway.
Royston blinked, and within the silent confines of the Instinct, time slowed to a near-frozen pace, and he said, “We don’t have time, let’s just climb it.”
Before Syon could form a reply, the young paladin severed the connection and reached out for the mound, only for her to violently snatch his hand, with a terrified look in her eye.
Royston cast an angry glare at her and mouthed, What?
Still clutching his hand, Syon nodded down to the left of the mass, and Royston and Oliver both froze down to the soles of their feet as they saw the enormous head of a Mountain Wolf, dozing in the sweeping rain.
A cloud parted above and a beam of moonlight swept across the battalion, highlighting the dark, moss-covered stone of the wagon-sized monster, lightly sprawled out in front of the weapon racks.
The trio steadied their breathed and crept between the lines of Obthraie, circling around the great Mountain Wolf before slinking into the centre of the weapons’ cache.
The beast’s head seemed to flinch and stir for a moment, but it didn’t rise, as though the sudden influx of Arcancy had disturbed its sleep.
Oliver could feel the blood stinging in his eyes and every muscle holding him upright was quivering. A chill spread across his head and a cold sweat began glistening on Oliver’s face. He numbly tried to get Syon’s attention as she conjured her Arcancy, but she was too enrapt in her job.
The two saboteurs trembled violently as they scanned their palms across the weapons, infecting them with panic and doubt.
Royston let out a groan of pain as he moved over to one of the next weapon racks, when a thud sounded behind them. He turned to see Oliver had slumped to his knees, barely conscious and only weakly gripping their off hands.
Oliver’s Arcancy flowed weakly through his wrists as his head hung limp from his shoulders.
Syon looked in a panic over her shoulder, whispering, “Oli!”
“Are you crazy! Be quiet!” Royston snapped in a hush-tone.
The Mountain Wolf gave a deep, rumbling sigh, shifting its weight slightly.
Royston and Syon stared at each other in a mute terror, and as if on cue, their concealment shade began to flicker as Oliver slid further through their hands. They each tightly clamped the ends of his fingers, forcing their own Arcancy into him, all but forgetting their jobs.
Oliver surged with just enough energy to raise his head. Blood ran almost freely from his eyes, like tears, as rain thundered down upon them. Barely able to speak at all, he murmured, “I’m sorry,” and fell backwards into the muck.
The Arcancy snapped off.
The trio suddenly appeared in horrified silence in amongst the entire battalion of Obthraie, Mountain Wolves, and Shade Hounds, as Oliver slumped to the mud, twitching and pale.
Royston grabbed his shortsword and Syon shook her head, clamping her hand over his mouth before he had the chance to shout in fear. When he’d calmed enough, she gestured mutely to the surrounding enemies, and whispered below her breath, “Don’t. They’re not awake yet. If we’re quiet we should be fine...”
We need to leave, he mouthed back. We’re out of time! Royston gestured sharply to the fortress, and narrowly above the height of the towering, dark-stone walls, two sentinels by their ballistae waved bright torches in both hands.
In the distant wild grasslands on the other end of Nikereus’ enormous encampment, horns blared and starfire lights shone out, illuminating the comparatively tiny assembly of Legacies.
At once, the ten thousand Soiltorn warriors across all ten battalions, opened their eyes.
Syon grabbed Royston and dragged him into the mud. They rolled around, layering themselves thick until they were indistinguishable from the soil. Syon wanted to do the same with Oliver but she couldn’t move. The fear had frozen her as she watched thousands of bodies rise, then turn with a thunderous shift and stomp, resounding across the valley like a landslide.
The goliath Yiraa arose with flat howls, as though they were being used like instruments. And last came the Shade Hounds, darting through the column lines in rapid, single file, like a long string of puppets dancing by a single hand.
Syon prayed they didn’t have enough free thought to see Oliver lying in the middle of the weapon’s cache.
The Soiltorn marched with purpose directly into the depot.
Syon and Royston held their breath as they stepped within inches of Oliver, crushing the mud either side of him as they stepped up to the weapon racks. Like clockwork, they would reach for a weapon and then recoil like it was scalding hot, and then turn and march away unarmed. Some found weapons that they hadn’t yet cursed and others seemed to power through the effects of the magic, but the bulk of the forces were walking away weaponless.
Royston’s eyes were the only thing visible in the dark. He turned to Syon and mouthed, Its working!
Syon nodded, but when she turned back, she watched the last of the battalion attempt to arm itself. The final ten or so Soiltorn stepped mechanically through the weapon stations, when a patch of uneven mud caused one of the soldiers to slip. It took a wide step to catch itself and landed on Oliver’s shaking body. Its stone foot stamped down on Oliver’s left wrist, punching it into the mud and Oliver sucked a tight breath.
The other nine soldiers marched after the rest of the garrison, but the last Obthraie froze.
Royston and Syon looked on in horror as it bent its head down, as though drunk or blind, peering at the boy trembling in the mud.