Chapter Twenty

Cloudfire

The absolute humiliation of being bodily picked up by a big flying lizard far outweighed the perfectly rational fear Wesely should have been feeling.

He yelled in frustration as the estate became smaller and smaller with each beat of the dragon’s wings. As he was carried away from his father and the Nocturne who was closing in on him.

Gallos kept yelling at him, berating him for his betrayal and cackling at his doom.

The armor compressed him under the stress of the dragon’s claws but it didn’t dent. Instead the armor actually began to grow hot and the dragon’s claws, squealing as if alive itself.

Wesley flailed, trying to find his wand but he must have dropped it when the thing had snatched him.

They were rising and the air was getting thinner, colder.

He pulled his blade free of the sheath and swung for the skin at the base of the dragon’s claws. The scales were too thick and only struck sparks.

Then he was falling. Fast and uncontrolled. The dragon had flung him inside a cloud. The cool air droplets stung his skin as he fell. But anger overrode his panic. He called out to his wand, the useless little thing, and bid it come to him. In the minute corners of his mind he felt his wand react. Something he’d never been able to accomplish.

Then, with as much ease, he pulled it towards himself. He could feel it zooming toward him.

Sudden force spun him sideways and his world was spinning, bright, hot light all around him. Claws, razor sharp, were trying to cut him in two. He thrust his hand into his pocket and found…nothing.

The pistol was not there. Or maybe he never grabbed one from the armory. Wesley spun in the air, now truly fighting the panic. His wand was some hundred or so meters still…and Gallos and his dragon were coming, swooping in from the right. A torrent of flame ate the cloud up and came within meters of doing the same to Wesley.

The wings drummed the air.

The flame came again…

And Wesley’s wand came to him a second before the fire swallowed him whole. He dragged the flame around him like a blanket, keeping it several meters from his skin and let it dissipate as he fell.

“Still alive, little knight?” Gallos screeched.

They broke the cloud cover and fell freely through the open air.

Below was the estate, the battle still raging. Dozens of little fires glowing, the air growing thick with smoke. The study had all but fallen inward.

Rage unlike Wesley had ever felt swelled in his chest. Like a dragon of his own it burned. His family home, plundered as such. This fool, this knight of scum. This flying rat.

And so he drew around him a great swath of power, a serpent made of storm clouds, writhing.

“Finally,” Gallos yelled. “You have come to fight.”

The air caught Wesley like a giant hand, slowing his descent.

Gallos and his dragon made a pass but couldn’t get closer than fifty meters because of the gale winds that caught the massive wings.

Wesley had never felt power like this, to command the elements in such a manner. Where it had come from he did not know. He could feel every millimeter of the clouds above him, each drop of water in the sky, every tendril of wind around him.

In those moments, he felt he could have done anything.

So, he brought a hammer of lightning down on Gallos. The sound shook the air and the flash was so bright Wesley was momentarily blinded.

Gallos and his serpent plummeted, hitting the ground in the maze with a sickening thud. And Wesley, for all his power, fell far less gracefully than he wished. But he landed near the front of the house, where the battle still raged the thickest.

Whatever had happened after he’d been picked up, had left a dozen or so bodies on the ground. But none were his father’s. Nor the Nocturne’s.

Wesley sprinted into the house, dodging the fangs of another werewolf by blasting it twenty meters away. Then he lit a vampire on fire and made the roots of a nearby tree all but swallow a goblin.

The house was all but destroyed. Books and chairs and papers lay scattered and broken. Bodies and blood splattered among the mess. It was pandemonium. It was chaos.

And the Nocturne and his father were nowhere to be seen.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

A goblin type creature flung itself at Wesley from a hole in the wall. Its claws were sharp and its teeth dripping some kind of dark green liquid. He knew that liquid would eat through his skin and bone as if they were papers.

The claws rang off the armor plate as the fangs snapped at his neck. Wesley’s wand went off like a gunshot, rippling blue power burgeoning between him and the goblin.

A terrible, gut wrenching scream and the creature dissolved into blue, glowing ash.

Wesley stumbled away, the smell of burnt flesh so strong he gagged.

More explosions rocked the house and stone fell around him. Screams erupted from the hallway just beyond that led to the kitchens. He ran for it, deflected the stone with a flick of his wand and all but dove into the hallway.

Mora, bloodied and ragged, was dueling two masked wizards. One of which was sporting a half burned robe with visibly scorched skin. Even despite her obvious wounds, they were no match for her. The old warrior was not going down easy.

A spell the color of dawn shot down the hallway at her, burning the exact imprint of her body onto a century old rug that hung from the ceiling.

The old witch cackled her own luck, firing back with such ferocity all Wesley could do was stand there and watch. The poor fools were overwhelmed in seconds. One’s body broke against the stone wall and the other simply crumpled to the ground.

Mora sagged slightly, straightening, and turned to see Wesley. “The–”

She didn’t get any further. The walls and floor disintegrated around them. Sounds like a banshee came up as they stumbled for balance.

The real fight, it appeared, had been taken downstairs. Which was now basically the only floor left in the place. The twins, who were surprisingly still alive, fought a pair of jackal looking creatures with long, mahogany staffs that poured beams of gray light into the room.

Alaster, the imperious vampire, was locked in hand to hand combat with what looked like a golem. A crude amalgamation of old stone and weapons from the suits of armor that had been around the manor. It was a frightening being. Eyeless with a gaping mouth of sharp teeth.

The Colonel and his men were no were to be seen.

And Wesley’s father was on the far side of the room, still under the part of the roof that had not collapsed. He was covered in blood and grime, but alive. One of his premolars looked to be missing and a deep cut along his cheek oozed black blood.

The Nocturne, with his gauntlets, held the old lord by his throat against the wall.

The Nocturne, who’s own cloak was a torn mess, seemed physically fine.

“Where is it?” he hissed. “Where have you hid it?”

His father only laughed, coughing blood.

The Nocturne slammed him into the stone, shaking the building.

“Tell me!” the shrouded man screamed.

It was the first time Wesley had seen the man lose his patience.

Wesley raised his wand, cold fury pushing him. But just before the spell spilled from his lips, the Nocturne was lifted off his feet and flung back to float in the air above them. It was as if someone had turned off his gravity.

He seemed as confused, or possibly intrigued, as Wesley was. He allowed it to happen, as nothing else was happening.

Wesley looked around and saw Mora, her face determined, her wand raised. Her lips moved almost indistinguishable, but it was some kind of spell. Hate and rage alight in her eyes. Wesley didn’t know what she was trying to do but it wasn’t fast enough.

The Nocturne grew tired of the little game and raised a gauntleted hand, spinning inside the spell. The glove began to gather magic around it like it was building some wicked web. Blueish green magick wound around his fingers in small spirals.

Mora began to chant louder but it was too late.

The Nocturne spun in his low gravity and the ball of magic shot like a serpent’s tongue at the aged detective.

Her shield expanded but was quickly overwhelmed.

The explosion lifted her off her feet and flung her against the wall. Wesley ran for his father while the dust settled.

He found his father kneeling, blood dripping from his mouth. Wesley tried to help him up but he couldn’t get him up. The old man was hurting.

The building shook around them as Alaster delivered several quick, shattering blows to the golem, throwing bits of stone out of the back of the thing.

The dust plumes had settled and to Wesley’s surprise, Mora was still alive.

Though parts of her hair had been burned off and he scalp was bright red. Her left shoulder and stomach were visible. Blood streamed from her face but she was alive.

It seemed to surprise the Nocturne as well, standing among the violence and chaos. He stared at Mora, his head cocked sideways.

“Dignity in death,” he said, nodding.

Then they dueled.

The Nocturne could not catch the spells if he’d tried. They came too fast, too erratically. Mora had taken the hit to the head badly and it seemed to have loosened a screw.

She looked demented and manic.

The Nocturne’s spells missed her by centimeters, but still she came at him.

“It’s time,” Wesley’s father croaked. “You must go.”

Wesley almost laughed, the battle fever getting to him. “I’m not leaving. I can’t leave.”

“You must. He’s not going to stop. We tried. We lost. Go.”

“I can’t–”

Something cracked the air like a whip and Wesley looked up to see Mora straighten inhumanly, her eyes suddenly wide, confused.

Then she was hit again, by some kind of magical whip from the Nocturne.

Wesley watched her slowly turn to ash, as if burning from the inside.

She died without a scream.

And the Nocturne turned to him. “Wesley Barstow!” he yelled. “Your time has come for judgment. A knight of mine you are no longer–”

The air shimmered like a broken mirror. A sudden stillness caught the air and they were trapped in a bubble.

Wesley turned to find his father standing beside him, his wand outstretched. He didn’t look defeated at all. He had been faking it, Wesley realized. Waiting for his chance.

He spun in time to see molten hot chains erupt from the stone and caught the Nocturne’s gauntlets, smoke billowing from the connection. The shackles with a mind of their own, and pulled him hard. Smoke rose in tendrils from the Nocturne’s hands and he dropped his wand, which flew neatly into Wesley’s father’s hand.

“Now, we can begin,” Wesley’s father said in his gruff, old voice.

And thus, the night began to sing.