Rhisart sat back in his chair and rubbed his aching eyes. Curse all kestrels.

He stood, stretching his lanky frame to its full six and a half feet. The problems compounded every day they were gone, and Wayra still hadn’t contacted him to explain their absence. Despite having sealed the passage to the heart of the mountain, his sense of foreboding continued to grow.

He stepped around the desk and began pacing. Bookshelves covered the walls, and two overstuffed chairs sat close to a cheery fire burning in the large stone fireplace.

Why did I ever agree to post so many kestrels here?

Of course, it had seemed a wonderful boon until they all left. Their sudden departure had thrown the enclave into chaos. The few sentinels remaining were mostly young accepted, with a handful of old-timers, most of whom could barely summon enough power to teach.

The door to the study burst open and the keeper of keys rushed in, still wearing his night robe. The old man usually tottered along, and Rhisart hadn’t seen him move so fast in decades.

“Gerent,” the keeper exclaimed, “the town is under attack!”

Rhisart threw open a large window and looked out upon a panoramic view of the valley. Nestled in the wide arms of the mountain, the town of Il’Aicharen lay draped in early evening shadow.

Everything looked tranquil.

The keeper leaned against the desk, trying to catch his breath. “You must listen. I have foreseen it.”

“You haven’t had a foretelling in half a century.”

“Never matter.” The keeper gave an impatient wave of his hand. “I tell you, I have seen the town burn!”

I was right. The keeper spoke the truth, for Rhisart had been feeling that same truth for two days.

His forces were stripped bare.

An icy trickle of dread slid down his spine.

“Come.” He led the way through the keep and up onto the crenellated battlements with their unobstructed view of the valley.

Mount Il’Aicharen reared thousands of feet in sheer cliffs behind the keep, blocking the sky to the north. The keep was a solid mass of stone with five towers, built right against the cliff at the head of the valley.

A dozen smaller buildings flanked it on both sides, and a thick wall rearing twenty feet high protected the entire enclave. Constructed one hundred and fifty years ago with granite quarried nearby, the keep had never seen battle, and many regarded such a formidable structure built so far beyond the farthest reach of the enemy a foolish expense. Perhaps tonight that caution would be proven justified.

Arms of the mountain swept by on either side, enclosing the deep valley in which the local settlement thrived. The valley widened from a mile at the head, to twice that further down. The town comprised half a hundred buildings, near where the headwaters of the Ujutus gushed out of the eastern flank of the mountain, cascading five hundred feet down the cliff in a spectacular waterfall.

The churning waters raced down the mountain, split the town, and tumbled along the western side of the valley as the mighty Ujutus started its long, winding path through the heart of Hallvarr. Two bridges spanned the frothing river, connecting the upper and lower halves of the town. Farther south, farms dotted the central and western side of the valley all the way along the river, while ancient forest sheathed the eastern hills.

Rhisart stared out at the lovely view as he had countless times before. The air was clear, but no sound carried above the distant thunder of the falls. Cold wind sliced through their clothes, and the keeper shivered.

“How long?” Rhisart asked.

A scream echoed up the valley, its faint wail penetrating to his soul and chilling him far more than the wind. They shared a glance, not needing words.

Rhisart cast his mind off the wall.

His thoughts raced down the slope, into the town, and past shadowy, insubstantial buildings. Ethereal glimmers of the townsfolks’ souls shone through the walls of their homes. Slipping his thoughts farther, he found what he was looking for in an alley near the river.

The mongrel dog growled at his first touch, then yelped when Rhisart seized upon its mind with more force than wisdom in his haste. He sent a comforting thought to it, then sent it racing down the street, over the bridge, and into the lower half of town.

Another scream rang out, magnified many times through the dog’s ears, followed by yet another. Borne along with the dog, Rhisart’s mind hurtled around the last corner.

The dog slid to a stop, and Rhisart gasped.

Two farmhouses southeast of town, built right against the forest, burned like giant torches. Silhouetted by the flames, a host of makrasha charged toward the town, led by no less than four shadeleeches. With the dog, Rhisart smelled the sharp tang of blood and fire, and the reek of the onrushing beasts.

The dog began barking a warning, but Rhisart was already gone. Again inside his own body, he stared toward the lower end of the valley, horrified by what he’d seen, and by what it meant.

Grabbing the keeper’s shoulder, he said, “Makrasha. . .and shadeleeches. Rouse the keep!”

The old man gasped, rocking back as if Rhisart had struck him a physical blow.

Turning back toward the town and gathering his will, Rhisart amplified his voice until his words shook the valley. “We are under attack. Flee! Flee to the keep. Run for your lives!”

Several screams punctuated his warning.

Many doors opened, but most of the people stood on their doorsteps, staring toward the keep, more confused than afraid.

“Don’t delay,” he bellowed again. “Run for your lives! Makrasha!”

The screaming intensified as more voices joined in, and several buildings in the lower town exploded into flames. Townsfolk finally began to understand, and started running for the road that twisted up the steep slope toward the keep.

Only a fraction of them were moving fast enough.

Sentinels began to straggle out onto the wall to either side of Rhisart, asking what was going on. He left the answers to the keeper, as he focused again on the town.

Projecting his senses, he concentrated on the bridge. The lower half of the town already burned. Makrasha ran about the streets, slaughtering people as they emerged from their homes.

Returning to himself, Rhisart cursed. He could not allow the town to fall without any defense. If those monsters crossed the river, none of the villagers would make it to safety. Two bridges spanned the river, one old and wide and made of stone as solid as the keep itself. The second, added as the town grew over the past century, was smaller, simpler, and made of wood.

Shapes moved across the wooden bridge, tiny in the distance. Squinting, he could just make out a dark wave rushing onto the structure. The enemy was nearly across.

Rhisart formed an image of fire in his mind and focused his power into a concentrated shaft of pure energy that thrummed in his soul, chafing against the restraints that kept it bound.

He released it.

Liquid heat, invisible to non-actinopathic eyes, leaped from him and flashed across the distance. The distant bridge exploded.

Fire raced down its length, consuming everything in a wave of heat and destruction. New screams echoed across the valley, and he cringed. The bridge had not been totally clear of townsfolk.

It had been necessary, but the cost tore at his soul. The high-pitched wailing of makrasha testified that he’d caught the beasts before they’d made it across.

With the wooden bridge engulfed, he turned his attention to the stone crossing. He could not burn it, and the spells of strength woven into its stonework made it nearly impossible to destroy.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“What’s going on?” a young accepted called to him, breaking his concentration.

“See the keeper,” he snarled before pointing toward the tide of villagers racing up the slope. “Then open the gates and let them inside!”

A black tide flowed over the stone bridge. They were so fast!

Rhisart hurled a bolt of magic down the length of the valley in an attempt to slow them. The shimmering spear of power lit the night as it streaked from his hand toward the approaching enemy, but it glanced away just shy of the mark, and sailed harmlessly into the air.

Rhisart cursed. The shadeleeches held every advantage. Focusing on one tall building at the upper end of the bridge, he hardened the air around it, then drew the air in like a noose. Timbers splintered under the force of his will, and the building collapsed onto the street, blocking the road.

It would not slow them for long, but every second helped. The keeper, already back on the wall, directed the defenders and sent people to help the villagers into the keep.

“You are in charge,” Rhisart said. “I must activate the keep’s defenses.”

Rhisart rushed from the wall. With his long legs eating the distance, he raced through the keep and up the long flight of stairs to the top of the central tower. The room he entered was furnished simply with low bookshelves, a small fireplace, and a couple of squat padded chairs. A wide window overlooked the valley.

Stopping in the exact middle of the room, Rhisart threw out his hands. Blue-white lightning arced from every finger to strike the walls. Energy crackled through the air and a series of thunderclaps shook the tower to its roots. The air heated until it seared his lungs and choked his nostrils with the smell of ozone.

The lightning didn’t punch through the walls, but deflected, rippling vertically up the walls, then splitting, with slivers of energy shooting horizontal. Where the bolts intersected, they split again and then again. Within a double heartbeat, a grid-like pattern of glowing magic covered the room.

Sweat poured off Rhisart’s face as he held the spell. He bellowed a word of power, and magic shot back toward him from every intersecting node. Seven hundred and seventy-three bolts of magic collided simultaneously just above his head, forming a brilliant sphere of magic the size of his two cupped palms.

With another shouted command, Rhisart placed both hands around the crackling sphere. The lines of magic disappeared, and the glowing gridlines faded into the walls, leaving the room dim but for the brightly glowing orb clasped between his fingers.

Rhisart intoned the rest of the spell, and as he spoke the sphere shrank until it disappeared. He threw his arms wide as he uttered the final word.

His entire body shook as raw magic surged up, filling him far beyond his normal capacity. Under his feet, the tower thrummed like a giant bell struck with a silver hammer. As the sound reverberated through the keep, runes of power glowed across every stone surface.

Rhisart opened eyes that now shone silver, and sparked with power. The defenses of the keep were activated and under his command. The mighty awakened forces bound his soul to the keep, which acted like an extension of him, giving him control of vast amounts of power.

He spoke with a voice that shook the room, “Let them come.”

# # #

After the gerent left, the keeper marshaled his forces with the vigor of a far younger man. Several of the sentinels began casting energy from the walls, trying to slow the attackers.

Most of them were young accepted with little experience, or else old and tired and far past their prime. Their efforts helped but little, and the attacking horde soon fell upon the straggling villagers.

Screams filled the valley and defenders cursed in helpless frustration as they witnessed the slaughter.

One woman on the path urged her children ahead, then turned to face the charging beasts. With arms thrown wide and a wordless shout of defiance on her lips, she tried to slow them with her body long enough for her children to escape.

One old sentinel, his eyes fixed on that act of desperate heroism, cried out in rage. The keeper glanced at the man, who barely retained enough strength to teach the most basic spells, just as he raised both hands, and his body began to glow with power.

“Don't,” the keeper yelled.

Too late.

# # #

The old sentinel ignored the keeper and drew in the magic until it pounded through his bones and began tearing him apart. He had years of experience managing pain and held on tenaciously, riding the wave of power like a man trying to float the mighty Ujutus standing on a slippery log.

On the verge of losing control, he shouted a single word that rocked the valley and sent stones cascading down from above. A bolt of lightning flashed out of the clear evening sky and obliterated the beast closest to the desperate woman on the trail. The brilliant light seared eyeballs, while the thunderclap knocked people from their feet and shook the distant waters of the falls.

The same lightning bolt bounced up from the scorch mark that was all that remained of the makrasha, and coalesced into a ball of crackling silver energy, half the height of a man. It floated a couple of feet above the ground and drifted down the valley, with lightning arcing out toward nearby makrasha, cutting them down and splashing their carcasses across the road.

It reached the first of the shadeleeches and again arced lightning. The man's shield deflected it and he raised a hand to cast a spell. A second bolt of lightning struck first. That one penetrated his shield and blasted him to bloody ruin.

A second shadeleech threw a bolt of pure darkness at the ball lightning, and it exploded. The shockwave knocked scores of attackers from their feet.

Atop the wall, the old sentinel clutched his head, unable to control the magic still pounding through him and tearing him apart.

Even though his body screamed in agony, peace reigned in his soul.

# # #

“Tai Pari”, shouted the keeper.

The old fool, he thought sorrowfully, and knocked the old sentinel back off the wall with a blast of hardened air.

The veteran, a friend of more than a century, erupted.

Magical energy he'd condensed within himself overwhelmed his capacity and ripped him apart in a cataclysmic blast that knocked two people off the wall and shook the keep. A section of wall nearby cracked and buckled under the impact. The keeper staggered to the edge and stared down at the sagging stones where the old fellow had lost control.

“Be at peace, my friend.”

He turned and urged the other defenders to hurry. The old sentinel’s sacrifice had given the villagers close to the keep time enough to race inside, and the gate swung shut behind the pitiful few who made it.

The enemy flowed up the slope, while the flames of the burning town rose into an inferno below.

“Prepare,” the keeper shouted.

Sentinels and men with makeshift weapons raced to the edge of the parapet to repel the attackers.

The enemy charged the main length of wall. On the eastern side of the keep, the ground fell away steeply all the way to the river. The western wall was built right into the cliff. The central section however, was built back from the edge of the plateau, giving the enemy ample room to form up ranks and charge.

Throwing grappling hooks tied to ropes, makrasha swarmed up the wall with incredible swiftness, using their hengaruk to dig into the stones like giant bugs. As defenders ran to cut the ropes and push the makrasha back, the shadeleeches struck.

The keeper focused his energies on blocking the magical attacks. He extinguished fires that exploded along the wall without warning, deflected bolts of power, and fought to quell the efforts of the shadeleeches who were strong in their evil arts. Shouts and screams echoed across the valley as the battle raged.

A makrasha reached the top of the wall and slaughtered a stable boy wielding a pitchfork. An accepted knocked the creature off the wall with a blast of air, but was then killed from behind by another beast.

As his scattered defenders fought, already on the verge of being overrun, the keeper wondered what kept the gerent. They would all die in minutes if aid did not come.

As if in response, the keep thrummed to life and runes of power began glowing along the wall.

# # #

Rhisart took in the situation at a glance. Makrasha swarmed up the wall while shadeleeches kept his sentinels busy. Raising his hand, he called upon the keep’s latent magic, and it came to life, surging through him like the rising of the tides.

The stones of the wall's exterior glowed, becoming red hot in seconds. Ropes burst into flame and makrasha fell shrieking to the ground.

Three shadeleeches in unison cast bolts of inky magic toward the highest tower, but heavy, glittering shields rose around the keep, deflecting them easily aside. Rhisart cast a bolt of pure white energy back at them. It shattered the shield of the foremost shadeleech and blasted him into the next world. The other two ran, followed by the makrasha, still numbering at least a hundred.

The defenders on the wall cheered.

Rhisart held no illusion that the fight was over, but still couldn't imagine how it had even begun. When it was clear the enemy didn’t plan another immediate assault, he released the power of the keep and returned to the main hall where the keeper waited.

Placing a glowing finger on the keeper’s forehead, he said, “I name you second. Should I fall, the keep’s defenses will be yours to command.”

“What of Wayra?”

“If she returns, the spell will revert back to her.” Rhisart dropped into a chair. “Thank you. If not for your warning, they might have overrun the keep and killed us all.”

“It nearly happened anyway. They killed many.” The keeper dropped into another chair, looking exhausted.

Rhisart nodded, already turning his thoughts to unanswered questions. “If we hadn’t just lived through this, I’d have considered it impossible.”

“It seems impossible even now,” the keeper agreed with an answering frown. “I have heard nothing of war.”

“Nor I.”

“How they came to Hallvarr undiscovered I do not know, but why attack here?”

“That bothers me the most. They have nothing to gain by destroying the keep.” Rhisart paused, a wild possibility coming to mind. He considered it for a moment, then discarded it. Antigonus could not have fallen into their hands. Besides, he’d sealed the heart of the mountain.

“Any word of the kestrels?” the keeper asked.

“None. That is my second greatest worry. How did the enemy know we are so weak?”

“You think they knew?”

“It is the only explanation that makes sense. Had the kestrels been here, we’d have destroyed them all. They must know that.”

“I wonder if this is why Wayra left with her forces,” the keeper said. “To chase this enemy?”

“Perhaps. But then either they defeated her, or made her the fool and slipped past.”

“I fear it is the former, but let us hope it is the latter,” the keeper said.

“Let us hope so.”

An accepted with a bloody bandage tied around his head entered the room with estimates of the dead, and reports of damage.

While Rhisart spoke with him, the keeper said, “I will try to reach Wayra and call for help.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, Rhisart turned to the keeper. “I don’t think that’s a good. . .”

The old man’s eyes were closed. A shimmering, silvery halo surrounding his head testified that he was already casting the mindlink spell.

The keeper suddenly cried out, clutching his head, and fell to the floor, unmoving. Rhisart rushed to him and placed a hand on his brow, questing with careful fingers of thought.

The keeper’s mind was locked away in an intricate defensive spell. Rhisart couldn’t force his way in without causing more damage. Whatever had attacked him had nearly overcome the keeper's defenses, leaving only the hidden core of him heavily shielded.

Rhisart turned to the accepted. “Have him carried to his room and watched. He will awaken when the spell runs its course.”

The young man left, leaving Rhisart to stare at the keeper’s unmoving form.

He felt desperately alone.