Myrl wasn’t quite certain when he had finally made it to the central hallways and rooms of the palace, but he was certain that he was now almost spent. It had been hours, or possibly minutes, in getting himself, the wounded, and the able bodied to all move in a single direction, with those who could carrying those who couldn’t; as well as those who were able, deterring the advances of the creatures who followed.

He felt like his head was trying to split itself apart, and that may have just been the crown, but he didn’t have the time or energy to pull it from where it was stuck on his brow. His right arm was fatigued, and he wanted to drop the Scepter of State, which either weighed a ton, or weighed nothing, depending upon which moment he took notice of it. And his right ankle hurt to the High Seven Heavens, and he wasn’t sure why.

…maybe I twisted it, stepped wrong, at some point in this mess of running and fighting… no time to figure it out now…blazes it hurts, though…

And his finger, where the Ring that told him people’s emotions sat, was so cold Myrl thought it might have suffered some kind of damage and was now in shock.

Seeing to it that the wounded guardsmen, and everyone else, had been carried away from the fight, he had worked at providing Elbana’s forces additional aid where he could. The creatures had been almost completely immune to his spells, and he had run through many of the more vicious workings in his repertoire, mostly to no effect at all.

His basic fire spells just bathed the marauding things in what one guardsman had called, in awe, “pretty flames.” Tongues of fire danced and licked the advancing monstrosities, but were otherwise useless.

A modification of his force spells, though he would admit they were one of his weakest disciplines, rarely able to provide more force than his own body could with a stout kick, proved equally useless. He was able to knock the feet out from under one of the things as it had tried to advance, but that was all he had been able to do with force spells.

Myrl wasn’t calm enough to throw lightning. Those spells terrified him, were he to be honest, and the idea of opening up his body and soul to the primordial forces of the storm was one that made his pulse race when it should be as slow and measured as a pendulum.

He did manage to turn one of the raging monsters a pale blue color as he stole the air from around it, but that had not stopped the thing from continuing to kill a guard. The thing did move slightly more slowly, but he did not possess the raw volume of Talent that might have allowed Myrl to keep the spell in place long enough to have damaged the beast.

Lord Ashe had joined Master Elbana and Myrl at some point after he Myrl had managed to drag the wounded from the Hall with a spell, but before the wounded had been carted off by others while he and several guards had held off the advancing things at the chokepoint of the doors to the larger corridor.

He remembered the shock on his tutor’s face when the man had strode silently from a shadow in the hallway, confidently sent a screaming gout of blue fire down the hall to splash harmlessly against the chest of the very same beast Myrl had removed an arm from minutes (hours?) earlier. Ashe had been certain his hit would have stopped the thing, but it merely lost hair, and its skin reddened in the torchlight of the corridor.

Ashe was flush with his power and his Talent flared about his form in the dim light of the gray stone hallway, and Myrl was more relieved to see the man than he had wanted to admit. Turning to his pupil, Ashe raised an eyebrow at the young man.

“What have you tried?” He was direct, and wanted as much from Myrl as he could get in the least amount of time.

“Everything but Fulminata, and Galvana. Scutum Folior was the only thing that I had any success with, though Vacuui and Uterer might have worked if I had more time or strength, Sir.” The “sir” had popped out of his mouth unintended from years of respectful habit. And then he held up the Scepter of State, and gestured vaguely with the gold and ruby encrusted thing. ‘And this. It’s somehow connected to my crown and my ring, though I'm not sure how.”

Ashe stared at the young man in front of him for what felt like an eternity, then at the Scepter, before he turned back to the entrance to the hall where several guards with spears kept the things a bay while two other guards peppered their twisted and bleeding bodies with arrows.

Lord Ashe raised his gray skinned hand extended from a darker gray sleeved arm, and shouted “DOWN!!” to the guards.

Every armored form between them and the horrors in the hall clattered to the stone floor, some taking a knee and leaning against the walls, while others dropped where they had stood, now fully prostrate on the polished stones.

And the world went white around Myrl, as a bright light overwhelmed his eyes, and a sound so loud it qualified as a punch to the side of his head rang through the stones of the palace. The breath left his lungs as pressure sought to crush his frail human form. Shadows exploded into view from odd angles and sped off at weird trajectories before running up the sides of the walls and disappearing all together, leaving every surface around Myrl, Ashe, and the guards exposed beneath the harshest of mid-day sunlight Myrl had ever experienced.

Out in the corridor beyond, his eyes could see what looked like the giant, twisted, dancing skeletons of the upright standing bear-like monsters backlit against the light of a new sun rising somewhere in the rooms at the farthest end of the palace.

Through his now watering eyes, Myrl could make out Lord Ashe lowering his arm, and watching for movement in the hallways beyond where he stood. Smoke filled those chambers and corridors now, black and oily, roiling and spiraling in the open door. The man said something that Myrl couldn’t quite hear. The sounds around him were dampened, all but for a buzzing, ringing tone that blotted out most other noise.

Turning back from Myrl, Ashe gestured at the opening to the halls, and twisted his extended hand in a form that Myrl had been taught to use when summoning winds. Black, oily, reeking smoke swam and undulated before parting to reveal the three standing forms of the beasts. Slowly, their still forms resolved as the smoke cleared to mist, and then the mists scattered before the breezes Ashe had set in motion.

The closest creature was a burnt and bloodied horror of splayed skin and torn muscle, looking like the nightmare idea of what one might find in the butcher shop of a particularly bad dream. Its long-muzzled head hung on stretched strips of tendon from where it had been torn partially from the shoulders and chest.

There was a distinct cracking noise, and the wretched thing’s arms, burnt, blackened flesh falling from the twisted anatomy of their forearms slowly rose and oversized paw-like hands grasped the dangling head pushing it back onto the top of the spine. As they watched, its flesh oozed and slumping with the damage of the lightning storm that had been unleashed upon it moved and tried to reseal itself to its former shape.

The head wobbled, the jaw reset itself, and the eyes rolled in their sockets before they focused once again upon where Myrl and his guards stood, kneeled, and lay.

Lord Ashe slowly turned back to Myrl, and asked, “Your Scutum Folior worked?” He referenced Myrl’s Shield of Leaves spell, and his pupil nodded.

“Their claws, their bones, whatever they are, pass through the leaves, but their flesh does not. Their flesh piles up outside of the shield and is torn from their bones and claws. One almost tore himself apart trying to get to me through it before something else caught his attention.” Myrl wondered briefly what that meant, when one of the guards by the door screamed.

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Turning back to them, Myrl and Ashe could see the guards with spears holding the creatures back, where two of the things apparently less affected by the lightning now renewed their attacks.

“Give me your hand, and raise another Folior in the door.” Lord Ashe said.

Myrl awkwardly held out his unencumbered left hand, which Ashe took in his own left hand without asking about. Within the space of a breath Myrl had recentered himself enough and raised the Scutum Folior, his Shield of Leaves, blocking the door with the thin, overlapping lozenge shapes that made up the shielding spell.

Lord Ashe was now feeding his own Talent through Myrl’s body. And the spell was running wildly faster, and with more layers than Myrl had ever managed by himself.

He was a three seat rowboat suddenly populated and crewed by an entire legion of rowers, sending his slim little craft zipping about the aetherial realm faster and with more force than a kraken. In his mind there was a loud chorus of voices now singing where a single voice once hummed quietly to itself.

Myrl knew himself, his Talent, to be like that of a single archer, deadly under the right circumstances, who would some day with training and time, grow to be like a powerful squad of mounted archers, deadly and versatile. But, and he always marveled at the difference, Lord Ashe was an army of thousands where Talent was concerned. Ashe was five fully trained Legions, comparatively, at the very least.

While the shield spell spun itself across the expenses between the creatures and himself, Myrl could feel a tendril of Will directed at Delving the nearest monster. The one armed beast Myrl had torn apart before now charged the doorway, swiping at the pulsing leaves of energy with his remaining arm, and leaving swathes of his skin and muscle behind with each slash.

Pulling back his injured paw, the beast shrieked at the wall, and began raking and kicking at the thing with the long claw-like protrusions of bone on his feet. As Lord Ashe’s Delving hit the beast, it ceased its attacks briefly to tense its body and howl in high-pitched agony.

Myrl had never known a Delving that caused one pain before, but he had to admit, he had never encountered whatever these things were before now, either.

With a wrenching action, Ashe pulled control of the spell from Myrl’s grasp, and let his hand go. After a further moment, Myrl felt the spell set in place as Ashe tied off the flows of Talent and Will, causing the spell to sustain itself for the near foreseeable future. It wasn’t something Myrl could have done, at least not until now.

The shape of the spell subtly shifted in Myrl’s mind, almost a physical sensation, with what Ashe did as he watched, the spell settled into place and anchored itself to the very foundations of the palace. It was such a simple adjustment, but one Myrl hadn’t thought to use. One he hadn’t known COULD be used.

…I have so much to learn still… he lamented with an inward wince. Now he saw how to do it. Now it was a new way to express himself, if he lived long enough to practice it. To use it.

He could see that the remaining thing was now trapped in this section of the hallway as long as the spell held, or as long as its body retained flesh. At the rate the thing was pulling itself apart against the shield, lumps of bloodied shredded flesh and scored and burnt bones might be all that remained by the time midnight rolled around.

More blood and flesh was stripped from the thing as it continued to assault the shield. And behind the raging thing, the other two beasts had disappeared, having slunk off in the confusion once the spell had been set in place trapping it.

Looking to Ashe, the man was still Delving the creature, though it had stopped its plaintive howling. Ashe’s eyes looked eerie as the Talent allowed him to look deep into the thing raging behind the wall of delicate layers of force, flickering and swirling lights playing across the usually dark silvery-gray of the man’s irises.

As Myrld watched, Ashe released the Delving, and took a shuddering breath. The man was rattled by whatever it had been that he had seen, but he turned to the guards now crouched just inside the doorway, spears and bows at the ready.

“We’re pulling back to the Main Hall in the central wing. Yousix stay here, and be ready to hold that thing if the wall drops too soon. Another unit will relieve you in twenty minutes.” Every guard nodded to Lord Ashe, then turned back to the spectacle before them, hands on weapons and ready.

As he turned, he gathered up Myrl, and practically dragged the young king from the hallway, and led him to the central chambers of the palace.

The walk along the corridors to the Main Hall, once called The Golden Hall of the Sun, was humbling and horrifying to Myrl. Some of the paths they walked were now lined with bodies wrapped for funeral rites. Other hallways had scattered bodies being bandaged by medical workers, doctors and their assistants, from the Leech Hall. In many places, Myrl saw people in the throes of abject pain and misery.

Other people made Myrl’s heart sing, as they tended selflessly to the injured. Rounding one corner, Myrl caught sight of the petite little man in vibrant blue attire, the Herald who had been a part of Lady Mairillia’s entourage, tending to a small group of children of mixed ages. He was telling them a funny story, and taking their minds off of what was happening and where their parents might be. The man smiled broadly at the children, recounting the story of Arfat the Bull, but there was that slightly dull sheen to his eyes that told Myrl the little Herald had seen too much tonight.

Finally they entered the Golden Hall of the Sun, and several people stopped what they were doing to stand as Myrl entered. A ragged cheer went up. And several nobles made their way toward Myrl and Ashe, smiles and hope written large across their vasages.

Before he could say anything, Ashe stepped between Myrl and the approaching mob of nobility. “My Lords and Ladies, all! We are blessed that not only has Our King survived this cowardly attack, He has been able to deal a crushing blow to those who attacked Us this Night!”

The looks of joy on their faces redoubled as the message was made clear. Their King has saved them.

Myrl was instantly angry at the lie, but that was something he and Ashe would talk about later, if they both survived. Myrl knew that a good narrative beat the harsh truth any day when people needed hope. And these people needed hope now.

“Please allow us a moment with His Priests and Priestesses, so that We may confirm the Health of the King who has used his Talent to fight for His People in this Battle.” His words were emphasized by a great Boom from the Eastern side of the palace.

Tables laden with food lined one side of the hall, attended by some of Donk’s staff, and Ashe directed the people to enjoy the Kingdom’s bounty and hospitality as the King’s health was seen to.

There was a Throne at one end of the room, and as he and Ashe made their way over to it, Myrl now noticed the presence of a small, dark skinned, steel haired, older woman, a member of the Leech Hall by her robes. She stood by the throne, and was accompanied by the High Priest, Arne Raoh, and the tall slender, severe woman he had seen Arne talking to just before all of this madness kicked off.

Several high ranking members of the army stood nearby, as well. They were all waiting for their expected time with their king.

Myrl tried to not sigh. Not in fatigue. Not in sorrow. Not in frustration.

Once he was sitting, the little medicine woman swarmed him along with an assistant. She was both brusk, and invasive. Before he knew what was happening, the remains of his overtunic was stripped from him, and the undertunic was cut away from him with no regard for its worth nor the value of its cut. The doctor’s young assistant removed the fine wool wraps from around his legs, and pointed out something to the doctor.

Myrl was trying to talk to the doctor, but most of her replies to him were perfunctory, and left no doubt that his opinion of his condition was the furthest thing from her thoughts.

Suddenly the pain he had in his right ankle flared to life in new and incredible ways, making the young man gasp in renewed surprise and pain. When the old woman leaned back from him, she held a tangle of fine wires connected to some ruddy varnished wood shards. His blood decorated the entire mess.

Before she could hand the mess off to her assistant, Myrl reached out, and gently took the mass from her long, brown, delicate fingers. The wires themselves were finely drawn bronze, and shone in the lights of the hall where they were not coated in his blood and skin from his lower leg. The wooden pieces connected to that fine bronze were wrapped about by it, and in places the wire twisted through and about the wood.

He recognised these from somewhere. The wood looked like a darkly varnished fruitwood, and on some of the larger scraps, he could see delicate little remains of ivory inlay. As he investigated the mess, he could distantly feel the tugging ministrations of the doctor as she tended to his torn and wounded leg.

This mess that had been pulled from his ankle… and the man’s name came to him, then. This was remained of the dulcimer that had been played by David, the Minstrel.