Priestess of War (The Bowl of Souls Book 10), page 36
“Anyway, the boys was dead. Folks said I was a hero. Fer what? I just wanted to show off my armor and prove my tallywhacker was longest. Got my friends kilt. Walked home by myself feelin’ like the lowest dwarf ever.”
They moved forward in silence around a few more bends. “I figger this cave ain’t much longer. I was thinkin’ it should come out somewhere right below where they say that lake . . .”
They stopped because the way ahead of them was blocked by a solid wall of blubbery black sludge. It gave off a revolting heat and just looking at it made Lenui angry. Something big and white moved inside of it, causing a chunk to slide down to the floor.
“I wanna punch somethin’,” he observed. “And that ain’t the feelin’ I should have when lookin’ at somethin’ nasty like this.”
“Rocks?” Rufus suggested, still plugging his nose.
“Right. This is as far as we’re goin’ I think,” Lenui replied.
He opened the sack and pulled out a few of the fist-sized rocks. There were air runes chiseled into them and Lenui had worked with enough magicked ore that they made his skin crawl. These things were packed too tight. He wouldn’t allow one of them a hundred feet from his forge.
“You reckon we should space ’em out?” he wondered.
In response, Rufus took one of the rocks and threw it into the black sludge. It disappeared into the stuff with a splat. Lenui nodded and followed suit, throwing each rock in to join the other. He could see one of them slowly sinking to the bottom.
No sooner had the last one gone in, then there was a shifting inside the sludge. That long white thing made itself known again only this time it reached out towards them. The wall of sludge began to slide their way.
“Go!” Rufus shouted and grabbed the back of Lenui’s leather armor. The rogue started rushing back the way they had come, dragging the dwarf along behind him.
“I can run, dag-blast it!” Lenui complained. Then his hand was jarred against the wall and the glow orb bounced to the ground to be covered by the sludge. Knowing that white grasping tentacle was still waving towards him, Lenui changed his mind. “Pull faster! Pull faster!”
Finally the rogue horse pulled him into the cavern opening. They stopped and listened, but could no longer hear the slurp of advancing sludge. Lenui searched frantically in the bag worried that the trigger stick had been dropped along with everything else.
He held it up in his fingers, a long wooden dowel with a series of runes across it. According to Locksher, all they had to do was snap it and the rocks would blow.
“Now?” Rufus wondered.
Lenui shook his head. “No way. I got the feelin’ we wanna get way the hell away from here before this thing goes.”
“Liar!” Cassandra shouted. She rushed up and grasped Lyramoor’s head, digging her fingernails into his scalp. What he had said was impossible. He could not take away her blood magic!
Working out of sheer desperation, she focused all of her considerable talent into a fine point and pierced through the haze caused by the devices in his body. She forced her thoughts into his mind. He had to be lying. Or there was antidote somewhere.
Caught by surprise and weakened by loss of blood, Lyramoor could give her little resistance. What she found, did not please her. There was no cure.
No more elf magic. No more ability to stay young. No more ways to heal.
Snarling, Cassandra pushed away from him. She grasped her mace. A shriek passed her burning lips as she swung the magical weapon into his chest.
The elf’s chest collapsed. The rock wall behind him caved in. The golem’s magic faded. Dirt spilled into the room, covering many of her fine furs.
Defeat. No. She stumbled over to the chest next to her throne. The fire in her stomach was spreading out into her veins. She reached inside for the jade box.
Shuddering, Cassandra sat in her throne and opened the box. The pain from the elf’s blood was so severe, she barely felt the dagger’s compulsion. She gripped the handle. David!
“What is this, Cassandra?” His voice sounded distracted.
I-I’ve been hurt. Poisoned. My blood slave is dead.
“What is this foolishness? You are in the midst of a battle!”
My magic is low. I need your help.
“Now is not the time! I am in a battle of my own. John found a way to disrupt my plan!”
I will be unable to control the wraith, she said. My blood magic is fading even now.
“Very well. I will give you a small portion of my energy. I cannot spare much.”
The burning in Cassandra’s body eased. There was still pain, but it was manageable. She felt her strength returning. She wasn’t completely restored, but this was much better.
I will win, she vowed. But my ability to use elf magic is gone.
“There are other ways to extend life. There are other ways to heal wounds. Win your battle and return to me. The wraith has served its purpose now. Leave it to spread chaos on its own.”
Yes, David. Thank you!
“Go, my Priestess of War. Conquer!”
Yes, my god!
Cassandra closed the lid to the box. There was one more thing she had grasped from the elf’s mind before killing him. A single name. A familiar name.
Master Porthos.
Now she had an identity to go with the eagle she had face earlier. The human wizard had been instrumental in the battle that had felled her so long ago. It was his magic that had let the invading force get so close to her and catch her unawares. How had he lived so long?
“No matter,” Cassandra said aloud. She would have him now.
The Priestess of War leaned back in her throne and closed her eyes. She had to work quickly while her control over the wraith was still active. Where was he? If Porthos was working against her, that could explain how the Academy army was able to survive the plague of flies.
She dove into her connection with the wraith and rode its senses. It made no sense trying to search through the eyes of individual infested or worse, flies with their confusing faceted eyesight. Instead, she looked at an overall view of the battle before. If a bewitching specialist was working against her it would appear as a hole in the wraith’s magic, a spot where its control could not reach.
There was nothing immediately obvious. Flies blanketed the battlefield. Any spots of protection where small, nothing that would identify a witch of such power.
Her fists clenched in irritation. What else could it be? Where . . ? An idea occurred to her. What if she had misunderstood Lyramoor’s weakened thoughts. What if Master Porthos wasn’t with the army, but instead was with the ogres and that other annoying group?
She sent her thoughts westward to the ogre encampment and discovered that it was blanketed with flies as planned. There was one strange thing, however. She could sense very few infested ogres, a mere thirty living and another twenty dead. There should have been hundreds of them by now.
Cassandra understood now. The ogres weren’t there. They must have left, but where could they have gone? The passes were covered in flies just as heavily as the encampment and they couldn’t have come to help the Academy army. Her walls would have stopped that. Had they fled out of the mountains altogether?
Doggedly, she continued, looking along every pass and pathway until she found it. A wide gap where there were no flies at all. It was a good two day’s travel from the ogre’s camp.
Very clever. By moving them, he had avoided her finding out about his presence accidentally. Well, that tactic was about to burn him. She just needed a way into his mind. To do that, she needed to find a creature under his control.
It didn’t take long. The fool was helping feed the tribe by luring in animals for them to kill. She saw the mind of a deer approaching the camp, a strand of white spirit magic attached to it.
Cassandra pounced. Using the considerable might of the wraith combined with her own prowess, she broke through his bewitching barrier and dove into the deer’s mind, following its connection back to him.
What she found surprised her. This wasn’t an adversary. This was a man nearly dead. That was why she hadn’t been able to see the eagle’s lifeline and that was why he had been able to hide the entrance to his mind in the darkness.
As powerful as his magic was, his life force was very dim. He was a wisp of a man. His heartbeat was as the flutter of a moth. His voice came to her mind.
Ah, so you found me, he said.
You’re an old man, she said with revulsion.
So are you, my dear, he said, his thoughts a soft wheeze. But a lady. I meant an old lady.
Cassandra growled. You’re not worth my time.
You are likely right. I think I’ve done just about my share of the battle, he decided. I’m content. This is a good way to die.
You disgust me, she said and snuffed out his life.
Feeling unsatisfied, she returned her thoughts to her own body and stood. Suddenly, she was assailed by alerts from her hounds. Intruders at her flank and they were almost upon her!
They had been trying to get through to her for some time, but the connection had been closed. That Porthos! Somehow the old man had been blocking her even here!
Cassandra ordered her hounds to attack. Then she raised the dead forces on the beach and started them marching on the invaders. She gripped her mace tightly in her hand and headed for the door. How dare the enemy take the battle to her?
Fist and Darlan rushed out of the wagon to discover that everyone but Valtrek was gone. The Head Wizard, who had been sitting on the driver’s bench, turned to look at the two of them. He lifted his eyebrow. “They pierced through the wall some time ago. You will have to rush to catch up.”
“Sorry,” Darlan said, and showed him her palm as she ran by. “We had to get ourselves named!”
“You’re-!” Valtrek stood. “Both of you?”
“Yes!” yelled Fist as he followed behind her. He waved his left hand back at the wizard. “Uh, Mistress Dianne?”
“Go on,” she replied. “Use your mace and run ahead. They might need your help!”
“Okay,” Fist said. He gripped his mace and felt it’s familiar speed take over. He reached the wall and saw the tunnel burrowed through the base of it. He ran through, a smile on his face.
He couldn’t believe he was actually named just like Justan. Well, not as a warrior, a fact that bothered him only slightly. He knew it was rare to be named as both. But if he had to choose just one, being a wizard was something to be proud of. It didn’t diminish his fighting ability at all.
Ooh! Fist! Rufus sent, happy to sense his return.
Rufus! I got named!
Ooh? the rogue horse said, confused.
My name’s still Fist, though. Where are you?
I’m with Wee. Climbing, the rogue horse said. And Fist got the sense that the dwarf was hanging onto his back.
Oh. Be careful, he warned.
Just then, a lightning bolt flashed somewhere not far down the path. A loud crack echoed through the air. “Squirrel?”
I’m ready, Squirrel replied, preparing to pull magic through the bond.
Fist slowed to a stop. “Not this time. This priestess is too dangerous.”
I will be Squirrel, the furry creature replied and jumped from his shoulder to a rock shelf next to the trail.
“Just don’t be a dead Squirrel,” he said and ran on again, clutching his mace.
Another lightning bolt struck, then a series of several more. He could see the flash in the air, but the boulders lining the trail were disrupting his view. He was missing the battle. Hopefully everyone was okay.
He rounded a boulder and nearly tripped over the bodies of two ogres with their throats torn out. Not too far away, covered in sword wounds was the corpse of a lupero.
As he was bending over them, there was a muffled thud. A body arced through the air towards him. Fist watched in disturbed shock as a man in Academy armor crashed to the ground not far from him.
Fist rushed over to try and help him, but he was too late. It was someone Fist knew only slightly. The man’s eyes were sightless. His breastplate, though engraved with earth magic runes, was bashed in.
Breathing deeply, he remembered what Darlan had taught him about fighting another wizard. Shields first. Fist pulled his shield off of his back.
He continued to run. Have a spell prepared. Don’t try to think one up on the spot. Fist prepared one in his mind.
He rounded the corner and the slope opened up before him. The Academy warriors and ogre tribesmen were facing an army of thousands of dead and a dozen growling lupids with more still approaching from the shores of the black lake. The wizards stood behind them with spell-diffusing shields raised. Lightning bolts fell among the infested dead, dropping them ten or more at a time.
The Priestess of War stood in front of her house of stone, facing them all. She was dark and scarred, yet somehow beautiful in her shining armor and red cloak. Her mace radiated a mix of earth and water magic so terrible it warped the air around it.
As he watched, a warrior managed to round the edge of the dead horde and run towards her. Fist realized that it was Wild Dinnis, one of the Academy guards that had come up with Lenny and Bill. He was the one with Tolivar’s old sword.
The priestess watched his approach with calm detachment. Her mace clutched in her right hand, while her left arm was raised, directing the shield over her head that absorbed or deflecting the spells being hurled at her.
Fist ran around the Academy line, looking for a thin spot among the dead for his attack.
Dinnis ran at her, a roar of rage bursting from his throat. She swung her mace in an almost casual manner, handling the weapon as if it weighed mere ounces. Dinnis managed to dive to the side, barely avoiding the mace’s pronged ridges.
He came up in a spin, his sword, Meredith, arcing in at her back. The priestess brought her mace back around in a swift flick. The two weapons collided.
Meredith shattered into tiny splinters. Dinnis fell back, his eyes wide, his sword hand mangled. The priestess took a single step towards him and swung her mace down, pounding the graduate into the ground.
“No,” Fist said.
His word was echoed by fierce shouts along the line as the warriors redoubled their efforts. Arrows arced in from Swen and Maryanne, but the priestess’ shield deflected them all.
“Hey! Witch!” shouted Charz. The giant, who had been fighting alongside a group of ogres down by the shoreline, charged up the slope pushing his way through the ineffective dead ranks. Several ogres ran at his side. “You’re mine.”
She watched impassively as the giant approached, then swung her left arm towards him. The round rock that stood in front of her door rolled down the hill towards him. Charz snorted and stepped aside, but the rock turned in its path and bowled him over, coming to a stop on top of him. The giant let out an impotent roar. He could not get the stone to move.
Cassandra turned back to the rest of her attackers and pointed her mace at them in a clear taunt. Her mocking voice echoed, boosted by threads of air. “Who will be next?”
Fist had finally found the best angle for his spell. He anchored one set of vibrating strands on the iron of his shield, but before he could anchor the other strands, the priestess launched a spell of her own.
A volley of air magic shards rose into the air just above her shield. The shards rose fifty feet into the air, then fragmented and shot down towards her opposing forces, each fragment becoming a needle thin blade.
The blades fell among the Academy warriors and Mage School Wizards like tiny darts. The wizards’ shields caught many of them, but many more got through. Several people and ogres fell. Others, were wounded, but stood.
Fist sensed that the priestess was preparing a second volley. He anchored his second set of vibrating strands of earth and air on the chainmail shirt on Dinnis’ body. The priestess was standing between them.
The lightning bolt streaked horizontally, its arc covering the distance between his shield and Dinnis’ armor. A dozen dead between them dropped to the ground. Electricity crackled around the priestess’ body. Fist caught a glimpse of her good eye wide in surprise.
Now was the moment. He ran at her, using the path between the dead that his strike had created, his mace boosting his speed. The lightning bolt faded, but the electricity continued to crackle around her form. She turned her head, her surprised eye watching his approach. The tattoos on the exposed flesh of her arms gave off a green glow.
Fist charged her, his mace swung back, his shield leading. She brought her mace low in an upward strike. He leapt, swinging his mace down, spiked side facing her.
Cassandra’s mace connected with Fist’s shield, shattering the wood into kindling. The iron that backed the shield was dented in. The bones in Fist’s left arm, caught between the shield and his breastplate, should have been crushed to powder. However, that was the arm his naming rune was on.
His arm, though crushed, was not broken. The force of the blow launched him skyward up and over the priestess’ head.
Fist saw everything happen as if slowed down. Pieces of his shield scattered in every direction, some of them pinging off of his forehead. He felt a great pressure in his chest. The world was falling away. He was soaring.
Then the world spun as his feet flipped up over his head and he realized he wasn’t flying any more. He was falling. His feet continued their turn and the slope was rushing back up at him. He could hear Maryanne’s voice in his mind, shouting instructions.
He bent his knees and absorbed the impact in a roll. The remnant of his shield flew off of his arm and his roll continued as the slope steepened. He was now in a tumble. His body battered by the weight of his breastplate until he came to a stop face first in the muck.
Not mud. Muck. Sludge. His upper body had hit the lake.
Fist tried to move, to pull his face out of the hot goop. The wind was knocked out of him. He was still in shock over the whole experience. This time, Lenny did not arrive to lift his head. He could feel hundreds of larvae stinging him as they tried to burrow into his skin.
