The pain rippling through her body was the worst Tsia had ever felt. She’d thought she’d pushed herself to the edge when they’d been attacked by the gallû, and she’d summoned a storm to save the village. And if that hadn’t been the brink of her capabilities, she definitely thought she’d reached it in the battle against Yas̆gah and the dead gods, but, right now, a power welled up inside her unlike any she’d ever tapped before, a power that was as painful as it was overwhelming.

It hadn’t been the plan to actually attack the gates. She and the men she’d gathered to her cause were there as a distraction. They were good men, loyal to her father and Sapiya, but they were primarily guards and village militia rather than professional soldiers, and they lacked the siege weapons and mages needed to breach the walls. The goal was merely to tie up as many of Sarganil’s soldiers at the gates as possible and maybe, if they were lucky, to inspire the people of Birnah to revolt on her behalf. Their true hopes, though, were pinned on Jasper and Ihra succeeding in their attempt to assassinate the mage.

But that plan had gone out the window when she’d reached the gate and spied the mindworm staring down at her from behind the walls.

He was an unremarkable man; thinning brown hair and muddy green eyes, the hunched shoulders of a mage who avoided the battlefields, and an arrogant smirk on his lips as he stared down at her.

The man who had conspired to steal her father’s throne.

The insidious worm who’d unleashed rampaging Atrometos on helpless villagers.

The foul fiend who planned to deliver Birnah and its people into the hands of their most hated foe.

She’d ignored it at first, but the man’s face kept haunting her until she could stand it no more. A cold fury flooded her veins, an unspoken vow of wrath and ruin that burst through every barrier and washed away any thought of the plan.

She recognized the anger for what it was immediately, even though she’d never experienced it. It was the fury of the ancestors, the vengeful elven wrath that had driven them to avenge the Mwyranni's fall and made even the Sidhe wary. She’d seen it only once before, when Tōrin, her mother’s right-hand man, had learned of his eldest son’s death at the hands of some bandits. She hadn’t witnessed the vengeance he’d wreaked, but she’d heard the stories - tales of crucified bandits and their leader skinned alive - tales she found hard to believe of a man who was usually so gentle.

But though she heard of such wrath, Tsia had never thought she’d experience it herself. She was only one-fourth elven, and nothing about her, from her appearance to her mode of magic, seemed to favor that side of her heritage. Thus, she was taken by surprise as the icy tendrils of wrath and vengeance began to slither through her veins, and her essence was pumped to new heights by the ancestors watching over her.

They weren’t the only ones whose gaze was upon her. The wind murmured in her ear as she stepped onto the bridge, whispering Imḫullu’s name, and lightning danced across her fingers unsummoned. Her hair stood on end as the dark clouds overhead deepened, and the men around her fell back, exchanging fearful glances. The wind roared, the rain fell, and her wrath spilled over.

What exploded from her hands was not lightning as she knew it. Thicker, stronger, and more focused, a torrent of energy that Jasper, if he’d been closer, might have recognized it as plasma, cascaded across the gate in a true fusion of her wind and lightning magics. The gate still stood when the blinding glare faded, but the beam struck again and again.

Tsia didn’t notice as the guards on the wall turned and fled. She didn’t notice as the men behind her abandoned the bridge. She stood rooted to the spot, body wracked with pain as the ancestors’ wrath surged through her until, with a resounding crack, the portcullis split open. A hideous metallic screech filled the air as the gate tilted precariously, still held up by a handful of half-melted bonds.

Tsia sagged as the furor melted away, suddenly aware of the cold rain pelting down upon her. The screech grew louder as the gate’s lean intensified and then, with a final wail, tore through the last of its bonds. The bridge shook as the portcullis thudded into it. For a moment, all was still, with nothing but the steady thumping of the rain to break up the silence that had fallen over the stunned guards.

Then Tsia stepped forward, the winds stirring around her as she drew on her touch essence, and her eyes fixed on the gaping hole in the gate. So much for being just a diversion.

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

Jasper followed Ihra through the door, and paused to engage the lock, before surveying the hall they’d found themselves in. While not as luxurious as the great manors of Europe, the hall before them was a testament to Sarganil’s wealth. The hall was about forty feet across and twice that in length. A plush red carpet, worn down by use in the middle, lay beneath the vaulted ceiling, while light flooded from the massive crystal chandeliers that hung at even intervals. The hall was further decorated with staggered sections of padded couches and potted shrubs that occupied the spaces between the nearly two dozen doors.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

But despite the touch of luxury in the castle’s living suite, the city’s role as a fortress was not forgotten even here. Hundreds of weapons were mounted on the walls, enough to equip a small army, and a pair of miniature ballistae were mounted at both ends of the hall, prepared for a desperate last stand.

The corridor, though, was empty, and Jasper stared in dismay at the dozens of closed doors that stretched before them. Damn it. We need to find this guy and fast, but where the hell do we even start?

“I’ll take the left, you take the right?” he asked Ihra.

She nodded briskly, but before the two could split up, a door creaked open further down the hall. In a flash, the two flattened themselves against the wall, crouching down behind a decorative shrub in desperate need of watering.

A pair of guards emerged from the room and headed in their direction. Despite the full armor they were wearing, they clearly weren’t anticipating danger as they approached, lost in conversation between themselves.

“There’s a champion of the gods storming our city and our lord still won’t go to face her,” one complained.

Jasper’s blood chilled at the first part of the sentence, his mind racing as he wondered how on earth they’d heard of him, only to descend into confusion at the end. Her? Is there another champion here?

“I never thought I’d see the day our lord became a coward, but I suppose old age catches up with everyone eventually,” the other replied.

He braced as the two drew near, and wordlessly gestured to Ihra that he’d take the one on the left. He reached for the glaive, ready to strike as soon as the men were in range when a door behind them opened. “The gate has fallen. I don’t know who this champion is…intruders!”

Jasper cursed as the guard behind them screamed a warning, startling the two approaching. The glaive clattered to the ground as his hand twisted with an unfamiliar spell, while an arrow whistled past his ear and bounced off the guard’s armor.

Punishing Hand.

The bright lights in the hall seemed to dim as the spell hit the ground in between the third guards. The air shimmered as a pale but corporeal hand manifested in the spot, looking like it had been ripped straight off Frankenstein’s monster. It was a ghastly thing, scarred and torn, and utterly bereft of blood, but the effect it had on the guards was immediate.

As one, they froze in position, neither moving their hands nor their feet as they stared at the pale, wriggling hand. Blood leaked from their nostrils across cheeks as white as snow as Jasper rose to his feet and, snatching the glaive back up, plunged it straight through the narrow opening between the man’s helmet and his armored tunic. Apparently, the spell even froze the guard’s tongue, as he made no sound as he pitched forward. With a grunt, Jasper cut him and lowered him to the ground, while Ihra dispatched the remaining two.

For a brief moment, he contemplated trying to hide the bodies, but quickly discarded the idea. This was no longer a stealth mission; they needed to find and kill the mindworm before he realized how weak S̆ams̆ādur’s forces were, and recalled the reinforcements to the castle.

With a quick nod to Ihra, the two headed down the hall at a controlled jog, aiming for the door from which the pair of guards had emerged. It was closed when they reached it, and they paused outside as Ihra pressed her ears against it. “Hear anything?”

“It’s quiet.”

She cracked the door open, plastering her face in the narrow hole for only a second before she pulled back, cursing as a dagger slammed into the door.

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

Rahmû was a nervous wreck as he paced back and forth across Sarganīl’s chambers, bitterly cursing the day he’d ever listened to the lord’s proposal. Sure, he’d had to live in the shadows before, never free to practice his magic openly, but it was a good life. So long as you didn’t let yourself get greedy, a few words in the right ears were all one needed to live well, and until a year ago, he’d done a good job of keeping his ambitions in check.

But now…he cursed again as his mind flashed back to the champion outside his gates. Once he’d spied her, he’d beat a hasty retreat, but not before leaving his mark on the captain of the guard, a little spell that would let him see through the man’s eyes. Rahmû had thought that if he could see what sort of essence she wielded, he could at least narrow down which god was working against him and, perhaps, with the appropriate sacrifice, muster up a little divine protection of his own.

But that idea had been a failure. The magic she’d thrown against the gates was unlike any he’d seen, a glowing, flowing beam of light that defied all categorizations. If anything, the magic she’d displayed reminded him of the Sidhe more than of the gods, but he found it hard to believe that the king of Sapiya had one at his beck and call. And yet…

“No!” With an angry snarl, Rahmû slammed his hands into the desk, ignoring the shooting stabs of pain that spread across them. “I am not going down like this. Sarganīl,” he snapped at the lord sitting mutely in a chair in the corner, fully enthralled. “Guard the entrance with your life. Don’t let anyone in, no matter the cost.” He cast a second spell, extending his hold over the man’s mind and strengthening his physical capabilities, and waited until the man took his stand in front of the door before retreating deeper into the next room - Lord Sarganīl’s personal chapel.

Before Rahmû had arrived, the chapel had sat dusty and unused; while Sarganīl conveyed the appropriate amount of piety in public, in private, the man paid little regard to the gods, which allowed Rahmû to claim the space as his own. There, he’d erected a small altar to Duluḫḫû, though he knew that the long-dead Sidhe wasn't capable of answering prayers. It didn’t matter, though; there were older, darker things to call upon, and on the shrine set a book open to a ritual he’d never thought he’d cast. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but the champion had forced his hand. If I can’t win, no one can.

Pausing in front of the book, he sliced his wrists open, and let the blood rain down on the open pages as he began the chant that would bind his essence to a dark god, the chant that would allow him to seize the minds of the citizens of Birnah.