The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim (33 page)

He turned, lifting the ethereal shield and releasing Rain. The white mist was churning on the ground around her.

“
What did you do to me?” She balked as she stood, surveying the carnage. Somehow from within the shield he had created, she hadn't seen a thing. “What... what happened?”

“
You need to go,” was all he said. “Now. Run south, Shill and Cid are coming for you. Get
yourself to them before more of those things get here.”

“
What about... what about you?” The blackened clearing wrote shock across her face. He could
see how it disturbed her.

“
I'm fine,” he smiled. “I needed to stretch my legs anyways. Now go, your Highness.” He remembered the strange courtesy before he gave her a little push to the south. She might not like that. He didn't care, he had business to attend to. Needs to fill.

“
Hey you hairy toads!” He yelled to the hills and no one in particular. “I'm here! I'm ready!” He puffed up his chest and yelled so hard his throat burned. “
I WILL END YOU ALL
!”

He turned in time to see Rain reaching the mounted troop. They stayed to the outside of the clearing. He thought he heard Cid yelling for him, but ignored the old man. He wanted him to see. Wanted all of them to see. He was powerful... beyond powerful.

T
WENTY-
O
NE

T
HE
W
OADS WERE COMING
.
He could sense them. Closing. Could see black shapes moving down through the trees and underbrush. He could hear them too. There was a deep, guttural gurgling growling noise unlike anything he'd ever heard. It made the hair on the back of his neck do cartwheels. He didn't think he could handle another one of those flame tornadoes, however amazing it had felt to make it. It didn't bother him though, he wanted to deal with this round himself.

The long, elegant sword that had once been a gift still rested on his back. Caspian had made it. Had given it to him. Had helped unlock these powers he now used so freely. He wondered if the First Mage would be impressed to see his student now. To see how far he had come and how fast.

The first of the Woads lunged at him as he drew his blade from its sheath. He hammered the first one with an invisible blast and sliced the face of the second clean open with Caspian's blade. The steel guided the monster to the ground. He twisted, pulling the blade free and spinning to catch the next assailant mid-air. The warmth boiled in him, pressing up into his skull and massaging his mind. He was stronger, faster, more powerful than he'd ever imagined possible.

He stood in the creek, white mists churning at his feet, water flowing back into the recently evaporated bed. It splashed around him as he spun to meet each attack. Each monster had the same wretched snarl on its face as he turned. And each expression turned to the same stupid twist of surprise when he faced them. He hacked, slashed, and slammed them all to the ground. A writhing mound of hairy bodies began to pile up around him.

Ardin Vitalis knew no fear. It had left him early in the fight. But he did begin to experience something else. Exhaustion. It came on him suddenly, a wave of it racking him like a physical strike. He pushed past it, throwing up a wall around himself in time to ward off three new attackers. They found themselves crushed by invisible hands as he forced a way out through the mound.

There weren't many left, he could tell that much. But he was ready for the fight to be over. The elation was leaving him. He was dragging. How had this crept up on him so suddenly? The lull in the fight was revealing just how tired he was.

Five more. They shouldn't be a problem.
He turned and stood waiting for them to show themselves. If he had no fear, these Woads had less. They were suicidal in their determination. He knelt by the creek, letting the water pull as much of the black ooze off the blade as it could manage. The waters were streaked with the stuff; it shouldn't mind a bit more.

And then he realized his error. The monsters weren't upstream from him. They were down; heading for the horses. He turned in horror. They couldn't handle these things. Not with swords and spears and arrows. Not without taking casualties.

A loud bang sounded out, causing the horses to shy away. He could hear the Fisherman yelling at them to get back as he lined up another shot. Ardin had forgotten the old man's rifle. He started to run, but they were well over a hundred yards away.

Then Branston dug in his heels and rode forward, yelling like an idiot. He had a spear in his hand. He lowered it, couching the shaft in his elbow like a lance. Ardin shook his head to clear the cobwebs that were working their way in. He had to get there, faster. Where was the strength when he needed it most?

And then a streak of black launched itself from the grass. The Fisherman fired, Branston yelled, and his horse went down.

To Branston's credit, he did kill that first monster with his spear before its momentum carried the horse to the grass. But the second one was on him before he could stand fully upright. The Fisherman hacked down from the saddle, severing the thing's spine as it writhed on top of the young warrior. But then three more rushed forward.

The Fisherman cursed as his horse shied away, losing its nerve at the scent of blood and the sight of renewed violence. Ardin couldn't see anything else. He was still receiving information, but it was jumbled. His senses were working, but confused. They were beginning to fade. Was his subconscious too weary to maintain the web he had created?

I can't let Branston die.
His thoughts were sluggish.
No one can ever die in my charge again. No one. Not ever.

The warmth flushed inside his chest in response to his determination. He grit his teeth and made a leap. He had never flown before.
But this must be what it feels like.
The thought barely cleared his mind before the ground was rushing up at him again. Branston was being pulled in two different directions as the third beast tried its luck with the Fisherman's destrier.

The first never felt its back break; Ardin did. His knee drove straight to the ground as he did his best to absorb the impact with an ethereal pillow of sorts. He could feel his bones ache in response. Suddenly he felt sick to his stomach, the same illness from before returning in force. He had no time to listen to his body, both beasts were on him in a flash. Hungering for his magic – he could sense that now as well, but just barely. The world was beginning to swirl around him.

Ardin raised his sword against his chest, leaning into the first and thrusting the blade up and forward. Razor-sharp teeth slit his cheek as Caspian's steel slit its organs. It dropped dead, and he dropped with it to avoid its brother who sailed overhead. He got up and hauled on his sword, but he couldn't get it out. It was buried to the hilt in knotted muscle. His whole body felt like going limp. His throat constricted as nausea rolled through him. He turned in time to catch the thing full on in the chest.

It was all he could do to keep its teeth at bay as its claws clung to his back and legs. It pulled itself closer, teeth gnashing, throat opened as if to swallow him whole. He rolled to his shoulders, thrusting as hard as he could with his legs, but the thing wouldn't come loose. It was writhing now. Twisting and biting and trying to break him. He pushed back, working his best to burn the thing. Suddenly he found that his best didn't amount to anything.

Figures. S
omehow he was still able to think clearly as the exhaustion and wicked monster worked to undo him.
I made it through a hundred of these things to get killed by the last one. Some
power I have indeed...

And then there was a slit and a crack, and the thing went rigid before letting loose with a gurgle.

Ardin didn't bother moving as the thing slid off and rested next to him. He could hear it dying. He never thought you could hear something die, but somehow he did. His senses began to recede at the sound, the enchantments around him already fast-deteriorating. He wondered if he could make them last longer, or if they were better short-lived. How much energy did they use?

Pragmatic questions floated through his head as all other attachment to reality was dislodged. Blood was pooling in his left eye now. It felt warm. Hot really. Sleep felt warm. More welcoming than the nauseous headache he was leaving behind. They were trying to wake him now, Rain's golden hair filling his vision as it had once before. Lifetimes ago. He didn't think she would be getting his attention this time. Sleep sounded so much better, it was all he wanted to do now. And so he did.

Cid entered a new level of hell that day.
There were a number of things going wrong already, but watching Ardin race off with the heir of the Renault clan was just about enough to put him in an early grave. The bodyguard had laughed and joked about young love. But Cid hadn't been thinking of young love, only foolish children. And incompetent soldiers.
Some bodyguard.

It only took him a minute or so before his patience wavered, but it was Branston's that broke first. Cid could see it on the man's face plain as day, there was a burning hatred there. It was a hatred fueled by jealousy, judging by how many veins were popping out of his neck and forehead, and it took hold of him in a way that left him as foolish as Ardin.

He took off after his liege, leaving the rest in the lurch. Cid was ready to follow, and so he did. He worked as best as he could to stay in the saddle as his horse tried to keep pace. It was moments like this he wished he didn't hate horses so damned much. And moments like these that reminded him why he did.

Then a tower of fire launched itself into the sky.

He came around the corner in time to see Ardin thrashing some strange black cats. Or bears. Or frogs? He couldn't tell what the hell they were. Then it dawned on him at the same time he heard Branston yell, “Woads!”

Rain was running to them, apparently in the clear. The draw was burned to a cinder black, emptied of everything save soil and stone. The creek was only just beginning to work its way back down the remnants of its bed.

Cid, for his part, started yelling at Ardin to come back. Warning him of the second wave that was sure to come. But Ardin did exactly what he didn't expect: he turned away.

“
No,” Cid muttered under his breath. There would be no covering up who Ardin was now. No protecting him.

But then Ardin surprised even Cid. He unleashed himself in the valley. There had been doubt living in the back of Cid's mind, whether or not he would have ever admitted it. Doubt as to the truth of Ardin's story. Doubt as to the level of power the boy housed within his young frame. Doubt that the tide could hinge on his very involvement. That doubt died a bloody death as Ardin killed the Woads in that creek bed like a wolf thrashing foxes.

The sheer violence that emanated from Ardin was breathtaking. There was a level of dance to it, as if he was moving to some silent music that flowed through the creek running over his feet. Cid could hear him laugh from where he sat more than once. It caused his tongue to seek refuge in the back of his throat. What was the boy becoming?

The rest of the party reached them then as Branston ran to Rain and brought her back. Cid realized he should have done the same, but was still too enraptured by Ardin's dance of death. He was mystified, as were his companions.

Soon Branston was ahorse again, picking a spear from the saddle of a nearby scout and propping it under his arm.

“
Don't be a damned fool, Branston.” Shill wasn't really behind the words. He was as lost as any of them in the face of the carnage unfurling below.

Branston took one look at Rain, steeled himself, and prepared to ride down. Cid moved forward with him, his rifle at his shoulder. Two could play at this game. He didn't trust the weasel not to try and skewer Ardin while he was at it. And then Ardin was done. Done fighting, but waiting. For what?

Cid saw them closing too late, taking a shot with his rifle that struck only stone. Branston, for his part, responded well in the moment. Kicking his mount forward he shouted his challenge, but it was a fight ill-fated and a fighter ill-prepared. Branston went down so fast and hard that Cid was as taken aback as his shying destrier under him. He swung the Cleaver into action, freeing the man and allowing him to stand. It was in vain, however, as more of the Woads were on him before he could so much as straighten his back.

And now his horse wasn't responding. Her terror was palpable, shying and whinnying against the black, stinking monsters in the weeds. He glanced behind him. No one else was coming close. They weren't even looking at the struggle in front of them, they were all looking at the sky behind him. The sky behind him?

Cid turned in time to see Ardin descend like a demon on the Woad pulling at Branston's leg. The impact sent Cid's horse back another few steps, the cracking of the monster's spine made even Cid feel a bit queasy. He turned the horse around, looking to get her to make one last push forward. The stink of the monsters was thick enough to touch.