Eris

All the keep was silent. Not even the dwarves breathed loud enough to be heard. The only noise came from the howling of the winds, like tortured ghosts trapped between the keep’s walls. The air they brought with them was humid and hot.

Eris took a long look at the bailey. At the green Elektron grass growing in the shade. When she found a place with both cover and a vantage point of her surroundings she sat and unloaded her backpack.

A mat for her to rest on. The soulcharm, now burning blue with the Wyrm’s Essence, lain at her side. She was wary of any accidental complications, so she removed her gauntlet as well, slipping it away and into her backpack.

“Here,” she commanded to Jason. He obeyed, laying out his notes.

“You’re close enough?” Rook said.

“Yes. I sense him beneath us.”

“I do as well,” Astera said. “That is a stench that cannot be forgotten.”

“For the spell to be most effective,” Eris said, “you must lure him to the surface before I have finished the ritual. Otherwise he will have time to wait and regain his strength.”

“And time is on his side,” Absalon said. He peered between the fallen stones which blocked the portcullis. The few remaining undead spearmen attempted to push their way through. They were nowhere near strong enough. But soon more would arrive, and with more, they would be trapped.

Astera nodded. “I will confront him.”

“I will come,” Robur said, “to ensure you can escape if he seals any exits.”

“Then I come, too,” Rook said. “The two of us stand some chance against him with our swords.”

“And the rest of us sit up here like rabbits drunk on nog?” one of the dwarves said.

“No. You keep Eris safe.”

“Safe from what, lad? Think the dead will learn tae climb walls?”

Eris shook her head. “Once he realizes what we intend, he will spare no expense in preventing me from finishing this spell. There will be more than human corpses to handle.”

The dwarf grumbled. “Whatever ye say.”

“And what of the clouds?” Absalon said. “Do they not change our plan? How will you shine a sun which cannot be seen?”

“The clouds will be peeled away when the true form of the demon is exposed,” Eris said. “Most of his magic will be dispelled as well.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Not remotely.”

He nodded. “Then it does seem best. Those of us who remain—we shall keep you safe.”

Eris pulled the jade ward from her wrist. “Rook,” she said. She offered it to him.

He glanced down at it. A moment of thought, when he returned her gaze. “Keep it. Your spell matters most.”

Her fist closed then. She felt something, a hint of annoyance mixed with anxiety, but she nodded, and she slipped the ward back on.

Rook glanced around the bailey. “How do we enter?”

“There,” Jason pointed toward the tower. “There was a sinkhole that led to a dungeon. But it’s gone now. You’ll have to enter through the tower, I think.”

The tower. The tower’s front door gone, lost to time, but inside a trapdoor of enormous black metal stayed locked—a keystone lock. It would be impossible to open.

“There must be some other way,” Rook said. “Wherefrom came the soldiers?”

Jason shrugged. But Astera had an idea. She walked to the tower. Inside she lowered one of the rings on her finger to the trap—a ring with a saguaro’s flower carved in silver. A moment passed.

The door’s locks came undone.

It hinged upward and opened.

She stepped back to the tower’s doorway, conjuring three lights. “It seems I still carry with me a key,” she said. “Daphana’s key.”

Rook nodded. “Then we know our course.”

Eris took her seat. She checked all her things, and like a child studying one moment before a test she looked over Jason’s notes once more. But she knew everything there was to know. There was nothing left to learn. Any knowledge she lacked to perform this ritual would not be found in these scribblings.

“How long will this take?” Robur said.

“I do not know,” Eris admitted. “In theory, hardly minutes. To ensure ‘tis done right—no longer than an hour. You should not tarry here; I would rather risk Lord Arqa arriving too soon than too late, for it can be done quickly if it must be.”

Rook nodded. He and Eris shared another long look. “Good luck,” he said.

“Good luck,” she parroted back. The words were sincere but hollow. She wasn’t used to wishing anyone ‘good’ anything. Yet she was also surprised in the seconds that followed, for she felt neither dirty nor deceitful.

Then Robur, Astera, and Rook disappeared into the dungeons. That left Ras, Kas, Jason, Absalon, Tarfur, and Pyraz on the surface with Eris.

All shifted nervously. Pyraz took a seat at Eris’ side.

She closed her eyes. She needed to focus, to ignore all distractions. She concentrated on her Essence. With her mind she probed for Arqa’s once more. She found him with ease. The vampire burned like a pestilent sun underground, like a creature that caused tremors beneath her feet. Unmissable. Unmistakable.

Although she worked with her eyes closed she saw everything clearly. A visualization of the mana in the air. That was the sixth sense of a magician—a smell, a sensation, and a sight all in one, which those unattuned to the aether would never be able to know. She acquired her target, just as described in the notes provided to her, just in the same manner she imagined an archer might. Her aim completed. Now she needed to draw back the string.

She was lucky. Lord Arqa was a fool, or mad, or both. He made no effort to conceal his demonic nature. That made him much simpler to track. A greater demon of his strength was, ironically, easier to banish, when not resisting her efforts actively, for he was so much easier to detect.

A moment. Focusing on her target. Allowing herself to feel and smell and grow accustomed to the taste of this vampire, like the scent of a graveyard. She exhaled. Then, with her next breath, she drew mana from the soulcharm. A painful shock of static electricity jumped to her fingers. She ignored it, proceeding on with the spell; she visualized this Lord Arqa, though she had never seen him in person, and imagined peeling away his mortal flesh like a suit of armor. With every flick of skin pulled away she took another breath from the soulcharm—

And another shock. The muscles in her finger contracted.

The Wyrm fought back.

She focused hard. She would not allow this thing to spoil their plans now. Too much was at stake. When she made her deal with the Wyrm in its cave, at age sixteen, she was fool enough to think her will could overcome that of a terrestrial demon’s. She was a child then. Now she had no excuse. Now she would emerge victorious.

Like forcing a rabid animal into a box. Resisting the strength of a powerful magnet. She forced the Wyrm into position, beat it down, cramming it back into place with her mind—

And it faltered.

Mana flowed freely from the soulcharm.

Rook

They spiraled around a narrow staircase. Astera ducked to avoid hitting her head on the low ceiling. Everything here was dark, with no color save that off the enchanted lights which trailed behind their heads. When they emerged it was deep underground. A cool, dry place, where narrow corridors led off into darkness.

The path branched a dozen different ways. Rook felt as though he had stepped into an ant’s mound.

“Where did you find him last?” he said.

“A prison,” Astera said. She motioned in one direction. “He no longer makes his lair at that place. I sense he has fled deeper within.”

Rook nodded. He glanced back at Robur, to ensure he was still there, and when so assured they chose one corridor and proceeded forward.

Astera chose each turn. She led them like a hound, an invisible scent guiding her step. They passed empty servants’ quarters and abandoned kitchens. Rooms for guests. The construction here beneath the earth was not the black stone of the Old Kingdom, but something more mundane—sandstone, like the Shrine of Zur-Bas where they fought the sandspiders, carved in the fashion of a keep’s interior.

For this was a keep, built underground. All the amenities of an aristocrat’s fortress home were here. All, except sunlight.

They found another staircase. “Here,” Astera said.

They descended together. Again rounding a spiral, deeper underground. They reached the final step—and all stopped.

Sitting in the corridor, her back against a wall, was Aletheia. Her wound from Rook’s sword was healed already. Her white dress was gone; now she wore her old clothes, clothes from life, tanned leathers and a white cloak all stained with blood.

A dagger was on her hip. Pyraz’s dagger. Zydnus’ dagger. The Old Kingdom dagger from atop Dakru Spire. The dagger they gave her.

She looked up at them, and she stood.

Rook knew what it meant to be tormented by ghosts. He had endured years of hauntings: seeing the fallen in his dreams, unable to remember come morning what was real and what wasn’t. But in that moment he would rather have been torn to shreds by sandspiders than look upon Aletheia as she was. To see someone he loved so much again, to see her alive, and to know at the same time that she would never be his again. She could talk, and she could walk, but she would never return to his side. If there was evil in the world, that was it.

“You’re ruining everything,” she said.

Rook’s fingers bit into his sword’s grip.

“Aletheia,” Astera said. “We’re here for you.”

Aletheia stepped away. “Here for me?”

“You don’t need him anymore. You can come back to us."

A confused look. “Why would I go back to you?”

“We love you,” Rook said.

“You killed me,” she spat back.

“Lord Arqa killed you,” Astera said.

“No! Artoros never betrayed me. He never abandoned me. He didn’t leave me to die. He brought me back. Now I’ll live forever. Like you. Now we can all be together, and we never have to worry about time. Isn’t that what you always said?”

Rook tried not to listen, but he looked to Astera. That was what she always said. The elf’s mouth opened but she found no words.

“You always told me that mortals weren’t worth anything. But now I’m not mortal. Now you can love me again. And we can be a family.”

“And what about Rook?”

Aletheia, or whatever shade of Aletheia this thing was, shrugged and looked to him. “We’ll have to kill him. But that’s what he deserves, isn’t it? For abandoning me with you? For letting you kill me?”

“That isn’t what happened,” Rook said.

“Why weren’t you there? Why didn’t you keep me safe?”

“You aren’t Aletheia,” Rook said, “and your words can’t hurt me.”

“I am! You just don’t want to admit it that you’re as guilty as she is!” Now Rook and Astera both pursued her down the hall, but she walked backward, quickly, faster than she should have been able to. She slipped through an open door in the corridor. “I remember every promise you ever made! I remember when you killed my goblins! When you sent me out with the halflings in the tower’s basement! The way you ignored me when you signed up to fight in that arena! And I remember you still haven’t taught me how to use a sword!”

Here the door behind them slammed shut. It was an unenchanted lock, mechanical, but when Rook turned it was completely firm—no force could move it.

“Robur!” he said.

Robur nodded. He brought his hand to the door’s frame—

But when Rook turned back to look at Astera, she had broken out into a sprint after Aletheia. The both of them rounded a corner—and then they were gone. Rook swore. Without any thought he followed, running their way.

Robur followed after him.

Jason

Whatever Eris was doing, it looked like nothing to Jason. All he saw was the flickering light along the winged vial she held in her hands, in her lap. She fiddled with it like a doll. He stood, sweating, heart racing, watching closely, and wishing he had stayed home. Why was he here? What was he doing with these people? What could he do but watch?

Nothing. So he did nothing except watch.

The troll climbed up the parapet and watched the surroundings. The dwarves paced in boredom. Absalon stayed near Eris, like Jason, alert and on-edge.

“There,” the troll said. His voice was like an explosion. More bass than an orchestra.

Everyone looked, except Eris. Nothing at first. A moment—they followed his pointed axe. Then…

Shapes in the sky. Dozens. More than dozens. A murder of crows—no, a murdered of crows, for these birds were sure to be dead already.

Jason drew his dagger.

“Keep the girl safe!” Absalon said. He raised his spear in the air.

“They’re birds,” Jason said half-heartedly, “what can they do to us?”

“Shit all over ye,” said Ras.

The first of the flock made it to the walls. They swooped down, squawking. Tarfur jumped upward and grabbed one from the air and with his huge hands he tore it in half, throwing two wings down to the ground. The rest dove like falcons for the party in the bailey.

Eris chose her position well. They had to fly around a column to reach her, slowing their patterns of attack. Jason saw every type of bird he knew in Darom: vulture and crows and pigeons and doves and some birds with scales and leathery wings and a few bats and flying things which looked more like reptiles than anything else all descended now upon them in swarms like hives of attacking bees.

Absalon dragged his spear through the air. He cleaved through three at a time in broad arcs. Jason swiped at anything he could with his dagger and shit and blood rained down on him. Wings fluttered in his face and beaks and claws dragged across his skin, but a bird was a fragile animal, and even a bird which felt no pain and couldn’t die was easy to pull from the air. The dwarven brothers smashed handfuls even as they battered against their beards. Pyraz grabbed one out of the air with his mouth and tore it in half. Jason was forced down to the ground. Blood poured down his head—

“That is enough!” Eris shouted. A field of green extended around her, and around Jason too, but she didn’t look up or open her eyes. Her fingers wrapped around the soul charm. The birds threw themselves against the shield and another wave of energy shot upward. Sparks of green chained between the creatures in the air; they hung for a moment, before all toppled down to the ground, knocked from the sky.

Pyraz began disabling them at once. Jason joined him, and the dwarves, until soon the ground was completely covered in the still-writhing bodies of disabled, flightless birds. The squawking was deafening.

Jason covered his ears. He retreated into cover. Trying to ignore the pain. Wiping blood from his arms. Shaking his head.

Tarfur smashed the bodies. One-by-one beneath his feet. Beaks crushed. Bones pulverized. Soon there was nothing left to squawk. Silence returned.

Absalon laughed.

“Attack of the birds,” he said. “Now I have seen everything. Is that the worst this Lord Arqa can do?”

“No,” Ras said. “What can climb walls?”

Absalon glanced toward the parapet. A moment. Then, from over the top, he spotted it. A sandspider. The long legs and squat body pulled itself over the top and now waited on the edge to strike.

“This again,” he said.

More. Three at least. They positioned themselves in an ambush, ready to strike all at once, but Tarfur charged. He grabbed one by the legs and heaved it, spinning, and tossed it around himself like a discus over the edge of the parapet.

The dwarf brothers did the same. They encountered one. It struck at them with its venom. In the speed of a single heartbeat it lashed out and bit Ras on the neck, pushing him to the ground. He screamed. Kas smashed it in the head and it let go, but another was soon upon them, and they were overcome. Both dwarves were brought to the ground.

Absalon rushed to their sides. He cut off legs, but the vicious mouths of the creatures were undeterred, and Ras’s windpipe was torn out by the spider’s mandibles even as the spider collapsed limp onto his body. Kas scurried out of the way. With Absalon’s help he immobilized the other.

But Jason was hit. A huge spider, the biggest of them all, collided with him. Its hairy, repulsive, evil mouth, dripping with gore, dirty and rotting, lowered toward him—

Pyraz grabbed one if its legs and pulled it backward. The spider lurched out of position. That gave Jason the time he needed to slice off one of its mandibles. Then he sliced away at the other, and its forelegs, and he scurried to cover.

Tarfur came over. He heaved up his axe and brought it down. The spider was cut in two.

A moment. Jason panted. He wiped the ichor from his face. And then—

He looked up.

That was when he saw her. Her, the one thing he should have expected. The one thing he never wanted to see again.

A spider the size of a dragon. A scorpion’s tail on its back. Every single one of its eyes had been gouged out, and one of its eight legs was missing. But it was very much animated. It climbed over the wall like a microscopic obstacle, and it stopped there on the parapet, and its blindness stared down at them.

Its stinger raised.

“Samdosa,” Jason said, but his voice was gone.

Rook

Rook slid across dusty stone tiles and collided with a wall. He chased behind the yellow light which followed Astera’s head, lagging behind her movement like a lazy leashed dog. Another collision with another hard wall and he pushed himself forward and came to a corridor that was longer and wider than the others and he saw Astera sprinting forward in the distance, yet even an elf wasn’t fast enough to capture whatever it was that had become of Aletheia. Rook pursued—

Until he collided with Astera’s back. She had stopped at a doorway, in the center of the hall, and they both tumbled forward as he slowed himself.

Before them was a study. An enormous library. The largest Rook had ever seen. Scrolls and ancient tomes lined every wall in half a dozen shelves. Parchment covered a desk. A horrific miasma of iron and putrefaction hit them.

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The body of a young woman hung from a hook across the desk. She was bloodied and naked.

Aletheia ducked inside. She stopped at a shelf and turned. Her eyes glanced to the side, and Rook looked, and there he saw him.

After so long and so much excitement, Rook had forgotten. He had forgotten that he had never seen Lord Artoros Arqa before. He imagined a hideous monstrosity, a demon that barely contained its form within the shape of a man, and if a man at all, an ancient, withered, hideous one.

He was not that. He was tall and virile. Dark hair. He leaned over the desk; across his back was strapped a suit of armor made from hide and boiled leather, with two metallic pauldrons draped over his shoulders.

A wicked black sword rested against the desk’s side. The blade was long and tapered down to a narrow point; its quillons were in the shape of flared bat’s wings. He picked it up, and so he turned.

“I can forgive so much, Daphana,” he said. “Yet two betrayals is one too many.”

Jason

Tarfur screamed something in the language of his people. He rushed to meet Samdosa head-on as she came to rest in the crowded bailey. He raised his axe and swiped it down onto the spider queen’s head and he sliced it clean off, all its empty, scarred-over eyes falling to the ground, its mouth removed.

But it made no difference. Not even a drop of blood poured out from the wound. This creature was long dead.

Her stinger came for him. He ducked out of the way and the bladed point collided with a column, nearly knocking it over. Another sting; this one met his shoulder, leaving a terrible, jagged wound. Tarfur dropped his axe and went for the legs. He grabbed hold of one beneath Samdosa’s belly and, with one of his handaxes, lopped it off. But the enormous arachnid fell onto the ground rather than allow itself be dismembered, and as its leg came off, Tarfur was crushed. He was dazed on the ground.

Samdosa backed up. Her stinger raised. She brought it back down on Tarfur in a poised strike. He was impaled in the chest, his thick hide finally pierced all the way through.

The stinger raised. Tarfur went with it. He was raised into the air, impaled, like a man on a pike, lifted a dozen feet off the ground. Absalon approached the creature with his spear. He thrust at it once, then again, attempting to cut its other front leg; it paused for a moment, and then with enough force to cause an earthquake it leaped forward as a fox pounces onto prey.

So many tons of arachnid barreled forward. Its front leg caught Absalon on the chest, and it drove him directly against a column. No amount of armor could stop the clawed foot from smashing a hole through his chest.

Blood poured from his mouth. He went limp. Samdosa retrieved its claw and the column against which Absalon was impaled collapsed over; it toppled down an inch to Eris’ side, but she made no reaction. She stayed completely still, casting her spell. Nothing could disrupt her focus.

Samdosa's attention turned her way.

Rook

Rook tugged on Astera’s arm. “To the surface,” he whispered. “Now.”

“You are a monster,” Astera said. She didn’t budge.

Arqa hung his head. “I know, my love. Only know that I am what I am because of you.”

“How do you do this to your own people?”

“I do only what I promised I would, when you failed to return.”

Rook tugged harder. Astera pushed him aside.

“There is nothing left for you to rule,” she said. “You have massacred your subjects.”

“Your betrayal clouded my mind. Yet my subjects needed to be taught a lesson.” He stepped forward, into the hall. “As do you.”

Astera raised her sword. “Daphana spared you. The same mistake will not be made again.”

“Astera!” Rook said. “To the surface!”

“I spared you, Daphana,” Arqa said. “That was my mistake. I thought you had changed, for you let me free, and you brought me tribute. But I was so terribly wrong.”

Astera screamed. With a curse in Elvish she lunged forward with her sword. Arqa was caught off-guard, for the point of the enchanted Seeker’s blade pierced clean through his chest, emerging on the other side, and when she withdrew the sword the wound still remained. Green blood dribbled from it.

But the ritual wasn’t complete. He glanced downward, shaking his head, and what would have been a mortal injury to any other creature, even an elf, only caused him pain. Arqa wasn’t yet vulnerable—they needed more time, and the assistance of the sun.

“Run!” Rook shouted.

Astera backed up.

Arqa’s face darkened. The party fled and he followed at a walk. Aletheia was at his side. She giggled. Now Robur led the retreat, Astera the last. They rounded a corner—

And Arqa materialized in front of them. Shadow coalesced from the darkness as the vampire’s skin congealed into physical form inches before Robur. He stumbled backward. A smile spread beneath Arqa’s blue eyes. He raised his sword, but Rook jumped forward to parry the blow. Three strikes were exchanged. Rook was an excellent swordsman when only he could duel an equal adversary and at first he held his own against the demon—but he was much too fast. He moved with a viper’s speed, striking everywhere all at once, his sword blurred in the darkness of the corridors.

A cut landed on his thigh. He buckled. He parried another to his neck, but then a third came down on his right hand, slicing badly at his wrist, and he screamed in pain—his sword fell from his fingers and clattered to the ground.

Arqa lowered a hand at Rook and sent forth a blast of magic. Rook felt himself overcome by chill winds as he was swept off his feet and pushed against the far wall.

“Embarrassing,” he said. “Your last company was much more formidable.”

Now Astera was at his side. She struck at him again. She was no expert swordsman, but her armor was excellent and she possessed an elf’s reflexes; she ignored his blows and struck at him. She landed hit after hit—

Yet his armor was better than it looked. Her slashes were deflected as if he wore plate. She landed only one slice at his face; more green oozed from the wound, but he repaid it with a hard blow against her mail, and the black blade, clearly itself enchanted, turned her armor to rust. The wound was bad and blood poured from it at once, but it was her left and she still held her sword, and she ran her blade through him once again.

This time he stumbled backward, hissing.

Robur was at Rook’s side. He helped him up to his feet. Aletheia ran over to them, Pyraz’s dagger in her hands, but Robur knocked her away with a gust of energy. Rook tried to grab his sword, but he dropped it again, his hand too injured to hold anything, and he was forced to retreat back down the corridor. Aletheia stood and ran for them again—this time Rook let go of Robur and tackled her.

He took a slice in the arm, but he grappled with the girl for the dagger, and he pulled it from her fingers with his left hand, and he took control of it, and he drove it into her stomach. She pulled away. Then he turned toward Arqa and Astera and he stabbed the blade, Pyraz’s blade, straight into Arqa’s back.

It was enchanted, because he roared and stumbled to the side. He was dazed for just long enough. Rook pushed him away, withdrew the dagger, and all three of them sprinted past him, fleeing down the corridor, rushing toward the surface.

“Whore!” Arqa shouted from some distance off. His voice echoed through the hallway. Every footstep echoed, until Rook was nearly deaf. But they had good distance now. They all ran. They reached the door—

And the door was stuck. Rook and Astera threw themselves against it, but no force could make it move.

“Robur!” Astera said.

Robur nodded. He began casting his spell to break the enchantment. But Rook turned, and he saw from the darkness then Lord Arqa on approach. Aletheia was at his side. The two were almost upon them. The door was still shut. Now they were completely trapped. Even a spell from Aletheia could kill them—they had no recourse. Astera stepped forward to meet Arqa’s blade; they exchanged blows, but the vampire grabbed her by the arm. His immense strength picked her up, wrenching her arm around the wrong way.

Aletheia laughed and cheered.

Arqa pulled Astera in close. He lowered his mouth to her neck. A dark shadow flickered around his body, and for a moment Rook was certain he saw something different entirely—a creature of pure midnight—but then it was gone, and only the muscle-bound, armor-clad Lord Arqa remained. He whispered,

“We could have had something so beautiful, Daphana.”

His mouth opened wide. And there were no fangs, nothing inhuman at all, except when he gazed inside Rook saw pure darkness, and shifting like a pool of boiling tar, a maw like a shark’s jaw lined with countless jagged teeth, rows upon rows of canine teeth, a fly trap within a human’s head.

He bit down.

Eris

Eris opened her eyes. She saw Tarfur and she saw Absalon dead on the ground and she saw the spider. A huge, unbelievably gigantic, preposterously enormous spider, with no head and a scorpion’s tail and now a troll impaled on its stinger.

Her skin nearly froze. It was yards away—so close it could strike her next. She shook in fear. But she was nearly done—

She thought again of the vampire’s Essence. Still not concealed, still not hidden or fortified. She had been peeling it away slowly with the assistance of the soulcharm. Now she was ready to let slip the final touches of the spell.

But there was still no sign of Rook. She had waited for him. She wanted him to be here, with Lord Arqa and Astera, for the plan to be executed just as they discussed—

Tarfur flailed his arms on the huge spider’s tail. He pulled another hatchet from his belt, and even impaled he began to hack at the stinger. One strike, then another, the exoskeleton pierced. Cracked. The spider lowered its stinger in response—but too late. With one final blow the appendage was severed. Tarfur fell to the ground, still impaled, and the spider stumbled forward.

But it turned toward Eris. She was the one it was here for. The one remaining dwarf rushed in front of her, but the spider trampled him effortlessly. He went flying across the bailey. The spider approached—

And stopped. Tarfur, the amputated stinger driven through his chest, grabbed its back leg, and he had risen to sit, and now he braced himself on the ground with his feet, and he tugged on the back leg of the spider as hard as he could, holding it in place with all his strength. The troll was enormously strong. Stronger even than he looked to restrain such an immense creature as this monstrosity.

Eris knew there was no more delaying the spell. She couldn’t worry about what was coming to attack her. She looked away, and she returned her attention to Arqa’s Essence. She grabbed the soulcharm—

And the saw the shadow of the spear only too late. Over her shoulder the body of Absalon, like a puppet, a gulf the size of an ocean in his torso, stood, and he thrust into her again and again—

But each time her jade ward deflected the blow. Translating the slashing force into painful but harmless blunt trauma to her wrist.

Her concentration lapsed. She ducked out of the way—

Jason jumped onto Absalon. Tackled his corpse to the ground, holding him down. “Finish the spell!” he shouted.

Eris watched for a moment. Then she saw the spider again—it tugged and tugged where Tarfur held, until finally it ripped its own leg free from its exoskeleton, and now it stumbled her way—

She opened herself to the soulcharm.

She allowed her Essence to flow freely. She focused everything she could into blasting away every and any trace of the human visage which still lingered on Lord Arqa. She would lay bare his demonic form, sunlight or no, and dispel all his evil creations.

Something new swelled within her. Like warm water shot through all her veins. Overflowing. Overtaking her. Too much to contain. Painful, yet satisfying at the same time, like a jet of water washing away grime on dusty skin.

She focused the jet on Arqa’s Essence. Every ounce of mana flowed in his direction. And flow it did. She felt the soulcharm drain. A pulse of energy, and she was the conduit. A lightning rod for the aether. She rose to her feet, the power still flowing, and she felt it coursing through her feet, into the earth. Her mouth opened even as her eyes stayed closed. Never before had she felt so energized. A moment later and she realized her feet were no longer on the ground—she was in the air, levitating, pulled upward toward the aether, drawn like a magnet as the Wyrm’s Essence dimmed and dimmed in her grasp. And then…

The charm burst. Shards of glass lodged in her hands. She fell to the ground. Her eyes opened, and she saw the huge spider lurch toward her, mere inches away—

And stop, and fall limp to the ground, collapsing. Absalon stopped fighting under Jason. The dead returned to death.

Eris took a deep breath.

She did it. She overcame the Wyrm’s Essence. She cast a spell from second-hand notes from a non-magician. She exorcised a greater demon. She was truly powerful. Even destruction was pitiful compared to what she had done today. She glanced upward at the sky—

The black stormclouds were gone. The low blanket which covered all Arqa Valley, from mountain to mountain.

And thunder cracked overhead.

Gray stormclouds revealed themselves. Moving clouds, normal clouds, real clouds—monsoon thunderstorm clouds that were until now concealed.

The sun wasn’t out. The wind was blowing. It was the first rain of the year.

Just then it started to pour.

Rook

Astera gasped. Blood swelled down her neck. She kicked helplessly against Arqa’s chest, but the blows did nothing. Rook ran toward him with Pyraz’s dagger leveled—

A burst of light. Blue light, from Arqa’s chest, overcame him and Astera, then Aletheia, then Rook and Robur. So bright it was blinding. A screech like the slaughtering of the wind roared and echoed through the narrow confines of the corridor. Astera fell down to the ground, grabbing her sword, gasping in pain, and the light continued to swell outward from around Lord Arqa. He threw his hands to his side. His head backward. Then from down the corridor came another sweep of green light, like a flash flood of pure brightness, and it poured in torrents down the hallway.

Rook was blinded. He couldn’t see anything. He searched for Astera on the ground and found her by the feeling of cool metal, her mail armor, and he pulled her to her feet, and tugged her toward Robur. When his vision returned he looked backward, and he saw Lord Arqa.

Lord Arqa. Blue and green light crackled over his skin. He stared at Rook, then Astera, with a contorted expression of pure malice. His mouth opened, then closed, and he looked again, and slowly, like fire consuming a piece of vellum, his skin immolated. On his right arm a blue flame, on his left green; both burned toward his heart, and as they peeled away his skin, as they incinerated his tanned complexion, pure midnight was revealed beneath.

A flickering visage of shadow and dark fire. Bubbling lime in place of eyes. A deep sanguine hue around his edges. A body that was nothing more than silhouette. Claws that extended from hands of pure darkness. Legs and torso indistinguishable, yet a clear head, and a mouth lined with black teeth the same shade as everything else. At its heart there crackled a sphere of dark lightning which sparked electricity throughout all its body.

A figure so dark that it might be invisible except in daylight. A being of shadow. A shade of the aether. A greater demon, in its true form, standing now before them. The Vampire of Arqa.

Aletheia stayed herself. Still in her own body. Still a girl. But now she stopped her laughter.

The Vampire leaned down and picked up its sword.

“It’s open!” Robur cried. Rook looked over his shoulder; he saw that the enchantment on the door was broken. Rook grabbed Astera by the shoulder and tugged her to her feet and together they ran at full speed back toward the surface.

Eris

Thunder croaked distantly. No lightning. Eris focused on her breathing. She stared down at her hands. The soulcharm’s glass was embedded in her palms. In her fingers. She felt only numbness and warmth and wet. Another distant rumble. Tepid raindrops and a warm breeze billowed onto her neck and the blood now trailing down her wrists, to her elbows, onto her skirt and to the ground mixed with ever-increasing downpour and washed the wounds clean. Red puddles formed at her feet.

She tried to pull a large shard from her palm. It stung badly. More blood swelled from the wound. She hissed in pain, but it came free along with a tide of blood.

A glance upward. More rain.

Jason panted. He climbed off from Absalon’s body and scurried against the fallen column. Panting. “Did it work?” he said, desperate.

Now only the pattering of the rain.

The last dwarf, badly injured, crawled toward them. He came to a rest near Jason.

Eris closed her eyes and focused. The Essence of the vampire still lingered underfoot. But it was stronger now, like a scent blown in her direction, and it grew stronger by the second.

No sign of Rook. Maybe he was dead. But she was certain it had worked. She had cast the spell successfully.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then where’s the damn sun?” the dwarf said.

All her body still tingled. A wave of pain swept across her hands. She hissed again. Any movement hurt. When she stood again the sensation of lingering mana waned, and she became more aware of the rest of her body again—for a moment it was only her mind, she was so concentrated on her will that all her appendages atrophied away. Now she felt them again.

And she realized. The sun. What to do about the sun? How could they kill Lord Arqa without the sun? What were the odds that this, of all days, would be the start of the monsoon?

“No,” she said. “No! The clouds—no!”

She screamed in frustration and formed fists with her hands, wringing blood from her veins and shooting sharp agony up her arms.

Jason started laughing. “The monsoon,” he said.

“There must be some spell,” the dwarf said.

“There is no spell!” she screamed back. “There is nothing to be done!”

Jason curled himself into a ball.

“There has to be!” the dwarf shouted.

“It does not matter,” Eris said. “It does not matter…the spell is complete. It falls to Rook and Astera now. There is nothing else I can do.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jason echoed. “They aren’t back. We’re all dead.”

“So ye give up?” the dwarf said.

“I have done my part!” Eris shouted. She was in terrible pain. “I do not have the power to—the power…power.”

Her breathing caught again. An idea. An incredible idea, so many months in the making. How had she forgotten? If it hadn’t been for the manashunt she never would have—oh, but now she could. She pulled her backpack open and untied its back and, without any regard for pain, dripping blood over her things—all soaked already with rain—and she rooted around everything she had. Looking for what was at the bottom. Trying desperately to find one very valuable thing that she never had a chance to use.

The Manastone circlet. The circlet from the Archon’s Vault. She kept it all this time. Now she felt it, thrumming still with power in her pack.

She found it at the bottom.

She plucked it out and placed it on the crown of her head. Pulling down her hair. And she looked up at the sky.

A crashing from the tower. She looked down again and saw Robur stumble out into the rain. Behind him came Astera, then Rook. All were bloodied and injured. Astera looked nearly dead. Rook’s sword was missing, but he held an Elven dagger in his left hand.

Rook shouted at her. “He follows us! Where is the sun?”

Their eyes locked. “Wait for it!” she shouted back, and with that she looked directly upward.

The power from Manastone was completely different compared to that siphoned off the Manawyrm. This was more malleable, more cooperative, yet so much less useful. Like fire that didn’t burn the wielder, yet hardly cooked the meal. But it would have to do.

Now she did what she never would have dared to before. She conjured the very elements to her command. Not a focused burst of energy, but all the air itself. She threw her hands to the side and let the mana flow through her veins and a maelstrom formed around her. The wind picking up. Her hair snapping about her neck. Her skirt whipping on her legs and her cloak and the sleeves of her robes gone wild. The downpour bombarded her like volleys of arrows, needlepoints pressing against her skin, but she pressed ever onward, until a hurricane blew in the bailey of the keep and her companions were forced to duck for cover.

Her eyes were positioned directly overhead. Her mind focused on the clouds above. And as her ears were deafened, as the roar burst their drums, she channeled all the storm to that place, and she tore a hole in the clouds overhead. She pushed them aside with the wind. She ripped them apart with magic. She sustained the winds and watched the clouds high above in the sky move before her eyes, and they parted in all four directions: north and south and east and west, the heavens drawn and quartered. She tugged them apart with whirlwind, with her mind; and they were so much heavier than they looked, thousands upon thousands of tons of water in the atmosphere, but still she made them move at her fingertips, straining and straining, feeling the gem atop her head drain, still pulling as much mana as she could from the air—

She screamed in pain. Burning heat on her forehead. The Manastone gem turned to ash and poured down her face, but only a moment later she felt the sun’s rays on her skin. Still she kept pushing, until a wide hole was cut in the storm overhead, until an eye had opened, and brightness overcame Arqa’s keep.

She fell to her knees, coughing, and the world went dark.

Rook

Rook watched on in amazement as Eris ripped apart the sky. For a moment he was caught in a hurricane, forced to take cover, as she became the embodiment of storm itself.

Then the eye opened.

She fell to the ground. “Grab her!” he said, pointing to Robur, but before he could see if he complied, he turned, and he saw.

The Vampire stood in the tower. Its eyes stared at him, but so much longer at Astera.

She leveled her sword in its direction. It still held its black blade, but it was no longer the shape of a man—only a mass of shadows, a moving miasma of dark air.

It moved into the sunlight. The edges of its silhouette, the midnight fire, burned like a flame blown but struggling to stay lit. Its tarry shape sizzled. But it ignored everything, and it came for Astera directly. And she went for it.

Aletheia skirted along the edge. She looked at Rook. She raised her hand, as if to cast a spell—

“Rook!” Jason shouted. He turned to look at him, and he saw then Eris’ Spellward gauntlet soaring through the air, plucked from her backpack and tossed his way. Rook grabbed it just in time to level it in Aletheia’s direction, as a jet of fire came toward him. He blocked it. Fumbling, awkwardly, yelping in pain at his injured right hand, he slipped the glove on. It barely fit, it was too small and restricted his hand’s motion, but that didn’t matter now.

He charged Aletheia down.

Astera parried the Vampire’s blow. She sliced at him; her blade cut at a tendril of black smoke that writhed off his arm, and from it drained blackish-green ink. The Vampire roared in anger and struck at her harder, with such strength that her block faltered, and with its other claw it swiped at her. Astera was batted to the side.

The Vampire turned to Rook.

He tried to grab Aletheia. She fought against him, slipping away as the Vampire brought its sword down on his shoulder. He was forced to dodge away. He fell to the ground and couldn’t stand, his injured leg unresponsive. He was nearly impaled, when just then Astera shot back. She took another swipe.

The Vampire caught her hand and the grip of her sword with a claw. Moving in, lowering its mouth again to her neck, now exposed for what it truly was.

Jason rushed to Rook’s side and pulled him up. Rook pushed him away.

“Go!” he said. “Stay back!”

He lunged for the Vampire. He brought the point of the dagger down onto the upper arm of the shadow, tearing and ripping away at the bicep, and more ink spilled down onto him. It was freezing and it sizzled into smoke when it touched his skin.

Aletheia started to cry. “No!” she said. “No! Don’t hurt him!”

The Vampire turned at once. It thrust its sword into Rook’s side. It was a glancing blow but it tore badly at the side of his waist. He screamed in pain and collapsed to the ground.

But it let go of Astera. She righted herself. She twirled her sword in her arms, in a windmill, and she brought it down in a clean slice on the Vampire’s sword arm.

The Seeker’s blade severed the shadow. The Vampire’s black sword fell to the ground. It roared in pain. More ink poured and poured in torrents from the wound, spilling everywhere.

Aletheia’s crying grew louder, even as she did nothing, standing to the side. “You can’t kill him! Don’t let him leave me! Stop! Stop it! You can’t hurt him! No! Stop! Please stop!”

Its horrific black maw, its shark’s mouth of pure shadow, opened wide. The shadow growing even as it flickered beneath the bright sunlight. It snapped back toward Astera and with its remaining arm, while its skin bubbled, grabbed her once more.

Now at her neck. Its flickering mass of shadows for a head brought down one final time. Its jaw clamped down around her neck. It tore.

Astera screamed. Blood poured everywhere. The Vampire’s black teeth coated in gore which poured down its translucent esophagus. She protested, but the Vampire was much too strong, there was nothing it could do—

Her kicking slowed.

Jason ran forward. He grabbed the sword off the ground, the Vampire’s sword, the corrupted black blade with quillons like a bat’s wings, and he brought it backward, and he thrust it through the demon's heart—the crackling ball of electricity at its center, the heart of midnight lightning.

The ball shattered.

Electricity spread through all the shadow. Aletheia’s crying became louder. “No!” she said, and Jason withdrew the blade. The sizzling of the Vampire in the sun became more pronounced, like when water spread across a pan begins to boil. It dropped Astera and lurched in Jason’s direction, but sizzling became worse and worse with each second, and the darkness was blasted away. The rays of light peeled away at the darkness, until...

The Vampire’s mouth opened. Its eyes wide. It screamed, a noise so loud that the walls of the keep shook and crumbled and poured dust from every stone. Then the Vampire vanished in an eye's blink. Completely removed from sight, banished from this world, sent back to the aether, never to return.

Aletheia collapsed to the ground.

----------------------------------------

Rook hyperventilated. He clutched at his side. Pulled the Spellward glove off. Spit up blood as he righted himself. Jason came to his side and lifted him up, dropping the Vampire’s sword to the ground. When Rook was back on his feet he looked around and he saw the field—the spiders and Samdosa and the birds and Ras and Tarfur and Absalon everywhere around them. He was stunned but he didn’t look. He only looked to Astera. She was terribly injured. He stumbled her way—

But she was already on her feet. Not coming toward him, not tending her own wounds, but moving toward Aletheia.

She fell to her knees.

“Astera!” Rook said. Gore burbled from his mouth.

Astera grabbed Aletheia’s body. She was limp. Covered in knife wounds. Nothing but a pale, dead little girl.

“No,” Astera said. “Please wake up. Please. Please.”

Rook fell to the ground inches from her. An ocean of blood poured from Astera’s neck. Her arms. Her torso. She was dying. Her voice came weakly.

“Astera,” Rook said again, but the words were weak now. She needed to regenerate herself. She was too distracted. In the heat of the moment Rook had told Astera that he wanted her to die, and it was true that he hated her, but she was still his companion. She had done everything possible to redeem herself. And if he didn’t put sense into her—

She pulled Aletheia into her arms. Holding her body close. Their heads together. Tears swelled down Astera’s eyes. She said one last time: “Aletheia…”

An eternity of silence. Rook coughed. He reached out—

White light poured from Astera’s fingertips. Blinding. So bright Rook had to cover his eyes. A glow like the sun concentrated into a single inch. Like another demon had descended to the earth. It grew brighter and brighter and brighter still, until it was so strong that even Rook could feel the mana in the air. It was a taste he had never known before. Sweet and strong, like burning oil, but otherwise like nothing else in the world, and when he tried to look again he saw the light burn and flicker, like a flame dimmed over and over and over again. He tried to stand then again, his leg spasming, feeling the cut, but he made it to his feet, and he tried to press closer toward her, but the energy pushed him away.

Then everything stopped. The light vanished. Sunlight for a brief moment—but soon the clouds returned. The rain started once more.

Water swelled in the bailey and mixed with blood.

Rook stepped over to Astera’s side.

Her hair was white. The skin on her neck was gray. She was on her knees. “Astera,” Rook said, and he grabbed her by the shoulder.

She roared and turned and pushed him away.

Her eyes were black. Her skin sunken. Her teeth no longer white or perfect but yellow and jagged. Her face contorted in an evil snarl; she raised an arm to her neck, and she felt the blood which poured from the wound, no longer red but now as inky and dark as the Vampire’s skin.

She was an orc.

She looked to Aletheia one last time. Cradling her. Her eyes closed.

“It’s finished,” she said. Her voice was hoarse and grating. “Aletheia…” she choked back a tear, “please forgive me.”

She tilted her head downward. And…

She dissolved. Slowly. Starting at her feet. Her clothes emptied, her armor vacated. Everything collapsed into itself. Her now-gray skin flaked from existence. Not even turned to ash, simply gone. Astera disappeared before Rook’s eyes. Her hair blowing in the wind, until nothing but hair was left, and then not even that.

Then she was gone.

There was so much. So much had happened. So much pain and terror and adrenaline, so that only now Rook realized. His breathing picked up again, and his heart nearly stopped, and he jumped to Aletheia’s side.

He wrapped his arms around her.

All her injuries were gone. No wound to her neck. No marks from any blades. Nothing anywhere on her body. And…

She was warm to the touch.

“Aletheia,” he said. Tears swelled in his eyes. He hugged her tight.

She gasped. Her eyes opened. She buried her head in Rook’s chest, and she burst into tears. And in all his life he had never been in so much pain, and never experienced so much discomfort, and never known such terror and exhaustion, and he had never been half so happy.