Daphne had always hated writing big battle scenes. In fact, she had avoided it whenever possible. Her version of the Rise of the Wordmaster culminated in a duel-type showdown between Amelia and the villain. Two people. That was it. Describing one-on-one combat just felt so much more manageable.

Finding herself suddenly immersed in an epic all-out brawl among many combatants was only confirming this preference.

It was absolute madness on every side. Eydis’s forces rolled across the room like a vengeful wave. Some brandished glowing word-chains, while others were waving bashers. The Wordmaster was shrieking orders, firing sludge projectiles from his cloud, and practically dancing with rage. The circle of enemies around Daphne and her friends broke as the Wordmages scrambled to obey their master’s bellowed commands.

The two sides met around the dais, clashing in a fury of smoke, light, and defiant shouts.

“For the Story!”

“For the Wordmaster!”

“Euloban!”

Daphne was aware of it all, but dimly, as if through a haze. Her heart had leapt upwards at Eydis’s entrance, and the flame-funnel had leapt with it. This was both good and bad news. It was great in terms of morale, and in case any of the Wordmages tried to summon a Devouring Wind, but it also meant Daphne’s strength was all flowing towards the fire-tornado. Her limbs felt light but useless, like the blood pumping through her veins had been turned to watery soup.

She vaguely saw Eydis fly higher and heard the dark-brown griffin shout something at Runar. Then Daphne felt golden wings enfold her, pulling her gently back until she was right next to the giant flame-funnel.

Being so close to the clean, crackling hum of the flames cleared Daphne’s senses. She shook her head, focusing on the two griffins in front of her.

“Eydis!” she gasped. “Where did you come from?”

“From home, of course!” Eydis said cheerfully, thwacking a charging Wordmage with one of her bashers. “Across the mountains. Left the day after you did, and only just arrived.”

“Thou brought all the survivors?” Runar pulled one of the old glowing light-chains from his satchel, using it to trip up another Wordmage sneaking up behind Eydis.

She gave him a bow of thanks and continued, “Vyth and Mynna were furious when they discovered thou and Bjarni had gone with Daphne. I called a full tribal meeting. Argued for hours that it was high time we cast fear aside and put an end to the Wordmaster once and for all. Vyth was a big grump about it, but Mynna strangely quiet. In the end, she confessed she’d been having dreams about Daphne.”

“Me?” Daphne saw a smoky gray arm shoot out from the cloud towards a griffin, and raised her hand to counter it with a tendril from the fire-tornado. “Mynna was having dreams about me?”

“Something to do with a very old piece of lore.” Eydis caught a mind-chaos rope around her basher and pulled the weapon from its very surprised owner’s grip. Then she bashed the owner, who crumpled to the floor. “Mynna said thou art the chronicler of Euloban, chosen by Euloban itself to tell the story of this world. In the dream, Mynna learned that Euloban brought thee hither from thine own world for the sole purpose of fighting the Wordmaster. ‘Only the chronicler can bring about his fall,’ the dream said.”

Runar beat his wings, directing a burst of the fire-tornado’s fumes into the face of an oncoming Wordmage. “And Mynna believes the dreams were sent by Euloban?”

“Of course!” Eydis used the fire-in-the-face distraction to deliver punishing blows to the Wordmage’s feet. “Euloban often uses dreams to invite us into the greater story. Thus says Mynna, and I never argue with her in matters of lore.”

“Daphne!” Runar paused a moment to place one golden wing on either side of her face, looking her in the eye. “Thy dreams of Amelia. They must have been sent by Euloban!”

“Okay,” Daphne stammered. “That’s good to know, I guess, but —” She turned back to Eydis. “How did you get past the walls? Weren’t they guarded?”

“We encountered no guards.” Eydis gave the groaning Wordmage a final WHACK on the head to send him off into not-so-sweet sleep. “I was surprised, but now I understand. They were all here, dealing with thee! Thou cleared the way for our entrance.”

“So where did all these fighters come from?” Daphne looked around at the dozens upon dozens of humans and griffins battling Wordmages on every side. “I thought you only had twenty griffins left in the whole tribe.”

“Our first order of business was the clearing of the dungeons,” Eydis explained. “With all the foes gathered here, ’twas light work to free the prisoners. But they need weapons, Wordsmith.” She leveled her dark amber gaze at Daphne. “That is thy task. Forge as many word-chains as thou canst. Do not stop. Runar shall guard thee, and infuse each chain with Lorist wisdom. I shall send fighters hither to arm themselves. And keep that Cleansing Flame alight!”

She snatched the word-chain from Runar’s grasp and soared off into the fray.

“The dungeons!” Daphne looked at Runar. His golden eyes were as wide as her own. “Runar — that means —”

“Hey, babe! Got any word-chains?”

Mark.

Mark was there.

Mark Sanders had just swooped down in front of her, riding on the back of a large golden griffin who looked like an older version of Runar.

Daphne stared at Mark. Runar stared at the older griffin.

“Father?” Runar croaked.

Before the older griffin could respond, Daphne felt herself moving forward. Mark slid off the griffin’s back at the same moment. He landed on his feet just in time to be tackled to the ground by a laughing, crying, jubilant mess of a chronicler.

They stayed in the hug-heap for a few beautiful seconds. Daphne heard herself babbling, something squeaky and mostly incoherent, but she didn’t care. Mark was just laughing. It was a clear laugh of pure, exquisite joy.

It was the absolute most gorgeous sound in the world.

Either world.

Both.

Then the absolute most hideous sound in any world broke in, shattering the moment.

“Blight of Euloban!” The Wordmaster’s shrieking voice boomed across the room, amplified by the cloud now covering the top of the dais. As he roared, the cloud surged upwards, taking him higher and holding him aloft. “Wordmages, to the flame! Take the fire-column down!”

A shout went up from Wordmages. Daphne felt the shift in the air as the entire room’s focus turned inwards to the flame-funnel at her back.

“That’s my cue,” Mark said. He gave Daphne a light kiss on the forehead. “If you could rustle up a few word-chains, I’ll be off. Hyddrun and I will make sure nothing comes near you. This is Hyddrun, by the way.” Mark patted the glistening golden wing of the noble creature at his side, winking at Daphne. “And he’s fantastic.”

“Wordsmith.” The two griffins had been locked in their own tearful embrace, but now the larger stood back and bowed low. “My son and thy Mark have told me much of thee, in the little time given to us. I am honored to make thy acquaintance.”

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A blast sounded from the other side of the room, followed by a scream.

“Gotta go.” Mark climbed up on Hyddrun’s back, then looked down at Daphne. “Word-chains?”

Daphne’s limbs sagged. Her lungs felt tight, like she couldn’t get in a full breath.

Turning to Runar, she held out her shaking hands. “The flame-funnel is so big,” she whispered. “It’s taking a lot of me. I can’t —”

“Thou hast already summoned the Lore-light,” Runar said. He wrapped a wing across her shoulders, turning her towards the fire-tornado. “Thou need only draw from it that which is already there. I shall aid thee.”

Warmth seeped from the golden feathers, spreading through her chest and all the way down her arms until her fingers tingled with returning strength. Daphne took a deep breath.

Then she began speaking Words of Truth.

She spoke the entrance words to the Eydis Way, followed by the entrance words to the first prose-shaft Runar had shown her. She recited the entire high-level Word that had produced the fire-tornado and called her friends to her, all the way from the Under Library. She declared the first Word of Truth she and Mark had used against the Rabid Daydream in her very first battle — the lines that had ended up being Gjurdok’s last words. She went on, speaking new Words that had never appeared in her imagination before.

With each line, a golden strand emerged from the swirling flame-funnel. Runar caught every word-chain as Daphne drew them forth, holding each up for one of the Readers or Lorists who was always dashing up to get resupplied.

Mark took the first, soaring off on Hyddrun with a very un-Euloban cry of “YEEHAW!” Then Eydis was back, collecting a whole batch of word-chains to distribute around the room. Dimly, Daphne was aware of Bjarni landing beside her with a whoop, hugging her and Runar and shouting, “Father! He is alive! He is here!”

But Daphne did not respond. She looked at Bjarni with shining eyes, then returned her full attention to the tower of living light.

She kept speaking.

Gradually, she realized that the longer she spoke, the stronger she felt. This was a lovely and completely unexpected revelation. Forging with the Prism had drained Daphne. She remembered keenly how exhausted she’d been after creating only four word-chains in the Hall of Parables fight.

But summoning Lore-light was a different story altogether. It was like a well-stretched muscle, getting tougher with each intentional exercise. She could feel her spirit growing brighter as each mighty line rolled from her lips. These were the kind of words that renewed energy and replenished hope. This was the kind of power that gave more than it took. This was the kind of feeling she’d always experienced while writing Rise of the Wordmaster in the first place, and which she’d longed to share with readers.

It’s word-power, she thought. It’s the heart of Euloban — the heart of Story itself.

She looked up at the flame-funnel, and caught her breath. Her strength wasn’t the only thing growing as she forged. The fire-tornado had expanded staggeringly. The top didn’t just touch the ceiling, but was spreading out across it in every direction, as if the hall had a roof of flame. The circumference of the funnel’s base had also doubled in size. Daphne had been stepping back without realizing she had done so in order to accommodate its growth. Now she was nearly at the foot of the dais, caught between walls of stone and fire.

And still Runar’s wing was wrapped around her shoulders, surrounding her with the wild sweetness of golden plumage.

She paused between word-chains, leaning back briefly into the warmth of his wing.

“Well done, Daphne Wordsmith,” he said.

“What do you mean?” She looked up at him. “We’re not —”

“Daphne!”

Mark and Hyddrun swooped down beside them, and Mark tumbled off to catch her up in his arms.

“You did it, Daphne!” He buried his face in her shoulder. “You did it!”

“Did it?” She returned the embrace, still mystified. “Are we done?”

“Nearly.” Hyddrun’s voice was grim. “We still have the villain himself to deal with. But look, Wordsmith.” He gestured to the room with one golden wing. “See what thy forging hath wrought.”

Daphne looked around, hardly able to comprehend what she was seeing. Not a single mud-robed Wordmage remained upright. They were sitting on the floor all over the room, their faces all wearing a bewildered expression probably similar to Daphne’s own.

“They don’t seem… upset,” she said.

Hyddrun gave a slight bow in the direction of the flame-funnel. “That is word-power at work. These were all once true citizens of Euloban — Lorists, Wordsmiths, and Readers. It seems the Wordmaster’s influence resulted in a sort of thrall, or enchantment. Once they encountered Lore-light in living form, the ‘spell’ was broken.”

Daphne gazed at one familiar figure sitting nearby. Mud Man gazed back at her in confusion, eyes clear and far more open than she remembered.

“The Wordmaster promised them magic,” she said softly. “Then used magic to control them.”

“Treachery upon treachery,” Runar said angrily.

Hyddrun sighed. “Fear upon fear, my son. When fear is given full reign, all roads lead to destruction. And to grief.”

Daphne began noticing other figures that were interspersed among the former Wordmages. Most of Eydis’s forces were intact, standing about in fighting groups of three. But not all had escaped unscathed. Daphne saw a few griffins with broken wings. Humans and griffins alike were already receiving care for oozing welts left by mind-chaos ropes. And there were some forms lying on the ground, unmoving, in piles of the same oily sludge that had killed Gjurdok.

Only a few, but still far too many.

Daphne’s heart folded in on itself. She felt Mark’s arm tighten around her waist.

“Why do you stop, Daphne Green?” The Wordmaster’s voice had shriveled, but it still hammered painfully at Daphne’s skull, like the persistent aftermath of a Devouring Wind. “Are you and your forces ready to surrender?”

Stepping back, she craned her neck to look up at the dais.

The cloud must have shrunk as the fire-tornado grew. It no longer held the Wordmaster aloft, but pooled around his feet, curling over the edge of the platform in sullen gray wisps. Amelia was now visible again. She seemed unconscious, held up only by the torture-rope connecting her to the Wordmaster and the wind-funnel around her head. The wind-funnel had shrunk also, and grown almost clear.

“There are no more prisoners,” Daphne said. She pointed up at the pitiful form of her main character. “There’s no more word-power to draw from the dungeons. All he has left is her. And he’s draining her dry.”

Hyddrun made a sound in his throat that sounded very much like a lion’s growl.

“Well?” the Wordmaster shrieked. “I see you have stopped your ridiculous forging. Do I have your surrender?”

“Look around, dude!” Daphne yelled back. “Your mages aren’t mages anymore. Word beats magic. Fire beats wind. You lose.”

“I am the Cleansing Flame!” he screamed. “I consume all in my path! I unite the divided classes into one mind, one master! I purify Euloban! I —”

“You get on everybody’s nerves,” Daphne broke in. “Seriously, how deluded can you…”

Suddenly, Eydis was beside her. Covering Daphne’s mouth with a wing, the dark brown griffin glared up at the Wordmaster.

“Thou art finished,” she called sternly. “We have written the end of thy story. But we shall give thee a final chance. The true power of the word comes from silence. Wilt thou surrender, and enter into silence as penance for thy crimes?”

The Wordmaster opened his mouth, but Hyddrun broke in.

“Thou wert once a great Wordsmith in thy own right,” the golden griffin said. “In time, if thou would listen, thou would find in the silence a truer word. Then, with thy gifts, thou could help heal Euloban in truth, and restore what thou hast labored so long to destroy.”

The Wordmaster stared down at Daphne and her friends. His mouth closed, then opened, then closed again.

Seconds ticked by. Daphne noticed that everyone in the room who could move was slowly and quietly gathering in a wide circle, surrounding both the dais and the flame-funnel. All gazed up at the Wordmaster, waiting.

But Daphne wasn’t looking at the Wordmaster. She was looking at Amelia, wondering how much longer her main character could last. Wondering how much would be left of her after this day.

Let her go, she pleaded silently. Just let her go.

Finally, the Wordmaster’s voice rang out again, slicing through Daphne’s exhausted nerves and forcing her gaze back to him.

“If you wish for silence, wretched traitors, then silence I shall give you!”

He raised his arms and let out a long, wordless howl. As the noise grew, smoke poured from his mouth, thick and oily and overwhelming in its stench. It covered the top of the dais in seconds, oozing down over the sides and spreading rapidly through the air. It was like a rolling wall of non-word, reaching out hungrily to consume every thinking mind in its path.

Daphne felt her own hands lift. All around the room, the hands of every Lorist and Wordsmith and Reader did the same, till all were standing with their arms raised. Light shone from their fingertips, calling to and being called forth by the spinning glow of the fire-tornado.

As one, they spoke a single line. Daphne did not know the words. She didn’t even know the language. It felt ancient and new, soft and strong, golden as a griffin’s wing and silvery as the light of Eloquent Water in a dalamelle.

The strange words pealed through the air like the tolling of many bells. The echoes drove the noxious cloud back towards the Wordmaster until he was surrounded — covered — drowning in the un-word of his own making.

Then the fire came.

The flame-funnel moved to the dais, opening and reaching around until the platform was encased in a wall of living flame. The fire caught the noxious cloud and burned rapidly through it. The Wordmaster’s howl became a scream, and then a shriek, higher and higher as the oily smoke burned around him.

Then the walls of fire fell, racing down the dais and covering the floor with light. Daphne felt the flame pool around her feet as it flowed by. She gasped in delight, feeling like her soul had just gone wading in a cleansing stream.

“Wordsmith,” Runar said softly. “Look.”

She tore her gaze from the lake of living fire and looked back up at the dais.

Amelia was there, crumpled on the ground. Beside her was a heap of empty mud-colored robes.

“The Wordmaster has fallen.” Eydis’s voice was full of the tears pooling in her amber eyes. “The Cleansing Flame has done its work. Euloban is free.”