Chapter Twenty-One
The Obthraien
The word Obthraie echoed in Michael’s head as he watched the horde soldiers endlessly stream from the cavern mouth.
Michel peered closed to see their skin was forged from rock, jagged and uneven, some dark as tungsten while others were pale as marble. Some of the soldiers were coated with aged moss on their arms, backs and heads. Sprouting from either side of their torsos were three arms, thick and long, with a mangled, stone weapon in at least two of the six hands. Some of the soldiers were stood upon four legs, all joining at a single, thick waist but not all. Michael wondered if they bothered wearing armour but as they walked their stone feet tore up the very ground beneath them and the question left his mind.
The ranks and ranks of stone soldiers made their way down the basin, all lined up shoulder-to-shoulder on the slope of the rise, compiling about a hundred paces before the lip of the moat and the raised drawbridge.
Michael now understood why they went to the effort of enchanting their weapons, and why Sarah’s Arcancy was no idle power.
The Legacies of Fort Guardian stood haunted as the more and more soldiers lined up for as long as ten haunting minutes before they stopped. There they stood in their neat rows, swaying with the valley wind, emotionless and unblinking, like puppets on untouched strings.
Deep from within the cavern, Nikereus let out an echoing breath, savouring their silence like a sweet tea. “If I have not received a submission of surrender by the morning of the Eighteenth of Bronzing... we will root you out of this hold, oh Legacies of Old, and make this haven your tomb. Myself- oh -and the other three quarters of my force.”
The fortress erupted in murmurs as everyone did the harrowing math in their head.
Michael wasn’t any good with mathematics but if there was any fewer than two thousand soldiers down there then he was highborn.
Nikereus seemed to drink in their discomfort and laughed without humour. “Of course, we could simply arrange it now. So, here is my one and only demand. Give your Location Tablets to me, and I will spare all those who dwell here.”
Amekot barely even tried to respond before letting his mouth fall closed.
Jack stepped forward instead and bellowed, “Two thousand or ten thousand, trust me when I say that far more daunting creatures have set upon these walls and far more daunting creatures have been left slaughtered up against them!” He turned his head and shouted, “Paladin Feller, deliver our formal response to the Monarch of Stone, please!”
Beside Michael, Ilo the ballista-operator smiled darkly and wheeled the great weapon around. Electricity sparkled and hummed and the enormous, loaded-spear glowed with a crackling light. Ilo ripped back the firing-lever and it launched out over the valley foyer, trailed by a tail of blue light like a comet, before striking an Obthraie in the chest and exploding into a mushroom cloud of blue smoke, sending arcs of lightning between twenty or more of the enemies around them, turning multiple squadrons to dust.
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Michael felt a surge of joy as the entire fortress let outs raucous cheers and taunts and a rare smile even touched Jack’s face.
Nikereus sighed and the cold wind of their voice washed away the short moment of relief. The self-proclaimed-monarch then spoke a harsh, undiscernible word from the depths of the dark and the mounds of freshly incinerated dust began to shift.
Amekot let out a breath of true horror. “No…”
Nikereus continued speaking as it happened, muttering, “I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but you are not Legacies of Old. You are not the strength of Lighila. You are not warriors of starlight and masters of your power. You are children, playing with the flames of a bonfire you did not build. And it will not save you.”
The puddles of grime began to rise, gluing themselves back together, and the fortress full of Legacies watched as the dead Obthraie rose back into their full forms rather than falling away through the soil.
“On the Seventeenth, I will return with my full host. On the Eighteenth, I will tear this place down to its foundation stones. I will take everything you hold dear and I will make you watch as I slaughter them in front of you. And then I will take the Location Tablets and move onto the next Legacy pit, and you will be nothing more than a soon-forgotten memory.” There was a long beat. “Sleep well.”
Nikereus’ voice fell quiet and their presence vanished like someone had settle a roaring wind with a wave of their hand.
The stone soldiers all turned in sharp, unbelievable unison and quick-marched back up the hill into the cave mouth, entering the thick blanket of darkness, marked only by the long echoes of their slate-footfalls until finally they hushed, leaving the world in silence.
Amekot stared at the mangled grass where the portion of army had stood and his mouth twitched, unable to form the sounds or sentences.
Michael and every other Legacy in the fortress stared at him with sickened uncertainty. And they waited an untold length of time before Amekot finally picked up his head again.
“War Council. Now...” His voice no longer boomed with magical enhancement. It was small and faraway as he finally pulled free his gaze and took off down the inner-wall staircase.
The entire fortress watched him leave. Everyone then turned to Jack, but he too was aghast at their leader’s response, and only realised everyone’s attention had fallen on him a moment too late.
Ilo stepped off of his ballista and shakily asked, “What are we gonna do, Jack?”
Jack blinked and knew everyone within earshot was clinging to every word. “We’re going to do what we always do. Plan. Execute. Survive. Now, everyone get back to your duties!”
“What in Enthall just happened?” Michael asked, pale as the sky, when Oliver pulled himself back over the ramparts.
Oliver didn’t speak, instead he merely shook his head, clenching his fists tight to keep them from shaking. He took three hard, slow breaths and looked back out of the rolling hills of Fort Guardian before his gaze touched the great chasm torn into the hillside.
Oliver stared at it for a long time. “I have no idea.”
Behind Michael, a voice spoke, “You! Williams, right?”
Michael turned to see Jack looking over him. His face was scarred through like a patchwork tapestry and his coal-black eye was beyond unnerving. The tissue of his face paled around the scar-lines, making his ebony skin look fair by comparison.
“That’s me.”
“Come with me. Jacobs, you too.” Jack turned and stepped into the inner-wall stairwell, vanishing out of sight.
Oliver frowned and took Michael’s hand, dragging the boy with himself down after Jack.
Michael was worried he’d slip down the dark stairs and whispered, “Where are we going?”
“Seems like we’ve been invited to the War Council...” Oliver said, none to happy about it.