The Pyromancer’s Scroll - Chapter 28: Attack

Author’s note #1: If you’re in Central Ohio, join me this Saturday (May 17) at the Newark Book Fest or on May 24 at the Ohio Author Book Fair! I’ll have chocolate :)

Author’s note #2: My book is in a giveaway! You can enter this giveaway organized by Finding Fantasy Reads to get various free short stories and to get on the author lists of 12 fantasy authors (including Jeff Wheeler, one of my favorite authors). One random participant will win a grand prize of several free physical books and various ebooks and audiobooks.

Author’s note #3: This is the second-to-last chapter I’ll be posting publicly on my website! And it’s a goodie—one of my favorites :)

Back to our normal programming . . .

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Twigly and her crew struck halfway through the second watch.

Their cloudship dropped through the night sky, their fire pan covered to let the air in their balloon cool and shrink. Twigly leaned over the side, gauging the distance between them and the palace lights below. Two hundred yards. One hundred and seventy. One hundred and fifty.

“Steady!” she barked.

Line uncovered the fire pan, letting heat rise back into the balloon. Its downward acceleration slowed, but it was still descending. Rapidly.

Twigly studied the pattern of lights and shadows beneath her. Jutting out from the main palace complex was a large, round tower, connected by a long walkway: the royal wing. That was their target, a tower barely fifty feet wide. If they missed that, it was a long way down to the base of the acropolis.

“Tracking line, deploy!”

Azura and Krizmon unlocked a winch, letting a rope rapidly uncoil from its spool. The end already hung off the side, tied to a wickedly large grappling hook. Grimbo perched on top, ready to hook it fast upon contact. The gangly snippen carried a handful of terramantic contraptions that he had assured her would work this time. They had better. She didn’t want another woodpecker fiasco.

One hundred yards. Their fall was slowing as they descended into thicker air. But the timing would still be as finicky as petting a hedgehog.

The rope, hook, and gadget-obsessed snippen had all become lost in the darkness. Briefly, Twigly saw a shadow block out some of the lights below her. That would be Bladebeak, grabbing the rope in his beak to guide it toward its target.

“A hair to the left!” Twigly barked. Tadgh turned the tiller, which rotated a large fin extending behind the ship. She felt the gondola slip slightly to the left in response.

“Seventy yards,” she called.

The korriks at the winch applied a brake, slowing the rope’s release. “Mark fifty,” Azura shouted as a black band on the rope flashed past. “Fifty-five.”

A clack sounded far below—the sound of metal colliding with roof tile. Twigly leaned over the edge, holding her breath. She’d misjudged the distance by a dozen yards.

A shout in Lurrian broke the night air. “What was that? Who’s there?”

Forty yards.

“Reel it in,” Twigly said, softer this time. “Keep it taut.” She noted the angle of the rope extending from the rail. “A pinch to the right.”

Thirty yards.

No more sounds came from below. In the night, the rope would be nearly invisible. And no one ever thought to look up.

Twenty-five. She could see their target clearly now, illuminated by the light of the Far Moon as it flitted between clouds. The royal wing was built like a three-layer cake, three concentric towers stacked on top of each other. The topmost tower, little more than a turret, was just a watch post. She knew from Durrin’s schematics that the middle tower had two floors, with the queen’s bedchambers on the upper floor and her offices on the lower. The third tower, forming the base of the cake, held peripheral offices and storage. The lower two towers had flat tops, patios with crenelated parapets.

Twigly could see two guards, one on the lower patio and one on the upper. Only two—that was a relief. There were more inside, undoubtedly, but two for starters wasn’t bad. Maybe her crew could even pull this off without killing anyone. She knew the Hakiru lacked her religious qualms about killing at night. But that didn’t make her qualms any less persistent. And no one on her crew wanted unnecessary bloodshed.

Twenty yards.

Twigly raised her paw to her mouth and sounded a shrill whistle. The two guards on the tower both looked up, their alarmed expressions flashing in the light of the lumen lanterns they carried. Then Bladebeak slammed into one, slicing through the darkness without warning. Grimbo jumped onto the other from above, pouring orange terracharge from his fingers into the guard’s armor. The guard’s movements seized up as his armor locked around him, and he toppled to the ground.

Would you look at that? Grimbo’s idea actually worked.

Fifteen yards.

“Anchors away!” Twigly cried.

Krizmon and Azura knocked two more winches loose, and the ship shuddered upward as it was relieved of two iron anchors, each weighing a hundred pounds. They crashed into the stonework below in a chorus of thunderous clangs. If the assault so far had gone unnoticed, that advantage had now ended.

“Over the side!” Twigly shouted, leading the way. Adrenaline spiked in her veins as she wrapped her limbs and tail around one of the anchor ropes, sliding down at a furious but controlled pace. As she approached the top of the lower tower, she drew a long dirk from her belt and stuck it between her teeth.

Pyromancer or no pyromancer on their side, it was time to capture royalty.

* * * * *

A resounding smash shattered Adara’s dreams.

She bolted upright in bed, heart pounding. Another smash sounded. The whole room shook from the impact.

What was going on?

Adara slipped out of bed and ran to one of her bedroom windows. Shouts came from outside. A shape flashed past her window, making her start in surprise. A second shape followed a moment later—it looked like a humanoid figure, sliding downward on a rope. The shouts outside multiplied, joined by the clash of metal on metal.

An attack!

The words of her nightmare resounded in her memory: “An avir’s life is in peril. To the skies, beware!”

Someone pounded on the door to her chamber. “Your Majesty!”

She recognized the voice of one of her guards. “I’m here,” she called, running to the door. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Warriors—invaders—out of nowhere!”

She fumbled for the heavy crossbeam barring the door. “Should we retreat to the lower levels?”

A second guard answered. “No! Stay where you are. The door is strong. We’ll hold them off until reinforcements arrive.”

It hit Adara then. They were coming for her. Whoever they were—Calamarvans, bandits, assassins—they weren’t attacking the entire palace, just the royal wing.

Adara looked about the room, unsure what to do. She snatched an overcoat and slippers, putting them on over her nightgown. Somewhere in the distance, a bell clanged in alarm.

Then, in the middle of the shouts and cries and clanging, she heard a most unusual sound: a drip.

Adara turned, sweeping her circular chamber for the source. Close to the wall, opposite the door, the ceiling was bulging downward. As she watched, another fat drop of liquid stone fell. It solidified before it hit the ground, shattering on impact.

She ran back to the door. “They’re melting the ceiling!”

There was a pause before the guards responded. “Excuse us, Your Majesty?”

She rephrased. “Terramancy! They’re using it to liquify the stone!”

“Then we need to get you out of there!” one of the guards said. “Hurry!”

In the semi-darkness, Adara fumbled at the crossbeam and the two locks on her door. Opening them now seemed to take twice as long as normal. Finally, she flung open the door.

Two korriks were there: Rimrock and Shaq, if she remembered their names correctly. They both had their swords drawn, their faces tight with focus. “Quickly!” Rimrock cried before hurrying down the stairs. Adara followed, clutching the hem of her skirt to avoid falling on the steep steps.

They came to a landing, where two other korriks were waiting. “Someone’s coming up!” one warned. Rimrock and Shaq skidded to a halt, and the four korriks filled the stairwell with their short swords and bucklers.

Another guard, an avir, staggered up the stairs, panting. “They’re breaking through the door down below!”

“Get behind me!” Rimrock shouted. “Your Majesty, get down!”

Adara found herself boxed into the corner of the landing, the avir covering her with his shield, the korriks in front, their swords out. Her heart pounded in her chest, cold sweat beading on her forehead.

“How many are there?” Shaq asked.

“At least a half dozen,” the avir said. “Hakiru bandits, I think.”

Hakiru . . . the air traders? Adara had seen their cloudships in the sky on occasion. But she had never met one face-to-face. Why were they after her? Had they made an alliance with Calamar?

Rimrock drew a vial from his pocket, popping the cork out and taking a swig. “Extract of initiative,” he said, passing around the aquamantic potion. “Shortens your reaction time.”

Adara took a sip. The liquid was sharp and bitter, with a hint of garlic. It sent a shock through her nerves as she swallowed. She blinked. Everything around her seemed to become crisper.

A crash came from above them, reverberating through the stones.

“That would be my bedroom ceiling,” Adara warned.

Shaq handed her a dagger. “You may need this.”

She gripped the weapon awkwardly in her hand, unsure whether to hold it like a paring knife or a scepter.

Shouts and cries echoed up the stairwell from the chamber below. The Hakiru must have smashed through the door.

This was it. They were trapped.

Adara looked around her. The potion in her veins seemed to extend each second, allowing her to process tiny details. The avir’s chest was heaving, his shield shaking in his hand. His face was white with fear. He was probably a recent recruit, with this his first battle.

The korriks surrounding her held their weapons at the ready, bodies braced to defend. They exchanged glances, smiling. Rimrock even winked at his brother. They seemed eager to fight, even excited, poised like a band of boys ready to begin a footrace.

Adara had never been around korriks before a fight. She’d been told that korriks had a natural affinity for war that other species lacked. She had seen an echo of that zeal many times as the korriks in her retinue sparred with each other or boasted of the battles they had been in. But to see it firsthand unsettled her. She was glad she had been born an avir.

They would die for me, she realized with a mix of gratitude and guilt. All five soldiers were ready to die tonight, without a second thought. This was what they had trained for, this was why they had signed up for the army: to defend their kingdom and their queen. Even if it meant sacrificing their very souls.

“Swords up,” Rimrock barked.

The Hakiru came up the stairs silently, sporting heavy fur coats, their cutlasses and oval shields filling the confines of the stairway. She couldn’t tell how many there were. They stopped just out of reach of Adara’s bodyguard, illuminated by the cold green light of the landing’s lumen globes.

“Mikarash sha-ba!” Rimrock shouted, the traditional Korrik war cry reverberating off the stones. His brothers joined in. “Shi-ki-ra maRash!”

“Stand down!” one of the Hakiru shouted. He spoke Lurrian with a thick accent. “No one has to die tonight. It is queen we want. She be safe, though you pay much silver to get her back!”

So that was what they were after—kidnapping and ransom. Were they telling the truth that they wouldn’t kill her?

“We’ll pay now—with our lives!” Rimrock roared.

The foremost Hakiru parted. Behind them stood a tall human, cloaked in black. He reached out a hand, speaking a torrent of words that could only be the Numinous Tongue. Verbomancy!

Wind filled the corridor. A jet of air, impossibly strong, blasted into Adara’s bodyguards. Rimrock caught the blast square on his shield and slid backward from the impact. Adara covered her face with her arm as the stream of air blasted her into the wall behind her.

“Steady!” Shaq shouted.

A bow twanged. Rimrock cried out and fell. Another twang sounded and the avir beside her shuddered. She turned to see an arrow buried in his shoulder. His teeth were clenched. Adara’s heart ached to see him in pain. Had he not been covering Adara with his shield, his shoulder would have been protected.

The jet of air swiveled, blasting into Shaq. His sword clanged as he dropped it to grab his shield with both hands.

Things were happening so fast! Three of her guards were already wounded or immobilized, and they had not even swung at the Hakiru. Yet they would keep protecting her until she watched them die in front of her. Die at night—to be claimed by demons.

She made up her mind. She could not demand that ultimate sacrifice.

“Enough!” Adara yelled, stepping out from behind the avir’s shield. “I’ll go with you!”

One of her korriks grabbed her arm. “Your Majesty!”

“Stand down.” Adara shook free and stepped forward. “Take me, but spare my soldiers.”

The spray of air stopped. The Hakiru stared at her, their eyes wide. She held her hand forward and dropped her dagger to the floor. Her other hand she raised behind her, forbidding her soldiers from advancing. They obeyed.

“Midsha-la!” one of the Hakiru grunted. They advanced, keeping their swords pointed toward Adara’s guards while they grabbed her and pushed her roughly down the stairs. “Move!”

Adara glanced behind her, assuring herself that each of her soldiers still lived.

“Move!”

* * * * *

Volthorn woke to lantern light flooding his chamber.

“Commander Skarr! We’re under assault!”

He leapt out of bed, claws reaching instinctively for the sword on his table. The avir carrying the lantern was already turning to run back into the hall.

“Invaders from the skies, sir! They’re in the royal wing!” Even as the soldier spoke, a bell tolled somewhere above them: the general alarm.

Fear grabbed hold of Volthorn’s heart, squeezing it until it pumped like a racing horse. The queen!

He charged out of his room, down the passageway, up a twisting staircase, through a flung-open door, and out onto a balustrade. Other soldiers were stumbling out of various doors, strapping on weapons and wiping sleep from confused eyes.

“Follow me!” Volthorn bellowed, drawing his sword. “To the royal wing! They’re after the queen!”

Through the darkness, he could see torchlight on the walkways of the royal wing. Shadows were moving there. Too many shadows. Weapons clashed. The turret at the top of the tower was ablaze. In the dark sky, wreathed in smoke, a darker shape drifted. A cloudship.

“KaRAk rakah!” he cursed.

So Rendhart had told the truth. A band of Hakiru attackers had infiltrated the kingdom, the capital, and now the palace itself. Volthorn cursed himself. He’d been a fool. And now the whole kingdom would pay the price.

He charged along the balustrade and down a set of steps, his mind racing through the tactical situation. The royal wing’s isolation—normally its greatest strength—was now its fatal weakness. Most of the palace guard was stationed by the front gates, at the far opposite end of the complex. And the single stone causeway connecting the royal wing to the rest of the palace provided a perfect chokepoint.

A swifter running in the opposite direction almost collided with him in the dark. She skidded, regained her footing, and started running alongside him. “They have archers covering the causeway!”

“I fear no archers,” Volthorn grunted. He descended the last staircase two at a time, leaping the final six steps and hitting the stones running. As he ran, he touched the gems at his belt, drawing blue terracharge into his fingers and pouring it into his armor.

He reached the causeway. Several soldiers were already there, advancing slowly as they covered themselves with their shields. One lay crumpled on the stones, gasping in pain, an arrow in his side.

“Charge!” Volthorn bellowed, plunging past the other soldiers. “No time for a slow advance. Rush them quickly and we’ll overrun them!”

An arrow hissed out of the darkness, glancing away from Volthorn’s armor with a flash of blue light. The royal wing was crawling with shadows. Two archers stood on the upper patio, with a clear vantage over the entire causeway. And there were likely more archers on the cloudship hanging above the topmost turret.

“Watch out!” one of Volthorn’s soldiers shouted. “They’ve set an air—”

Volthorn smacked into an invisible barrier at full speed.

“—wall,” the soldier finished.

Volthorn slumped to the ground, stars spinning in his vision. Confounded verbomancy! One of the attackers must have solidified the air at the end of the causeway into an impassable barrier.

Volthorn stumbled to his feet. He transferred terracharge from a ruby into his sword until the whole blade glowed red. Then he started raining blows into the invisible wall in front of him. His arm shook and stung from each impact, but he kept at it. His goal was not to slice up the wall—verbomancy did not so much bind the air particles into a solid as it did freeze each particle in place. Rather, he hoped the terracharge in his sword would overwhelm the strength of the spell.

With each hit, a hemisphere of red light rippled out from his sword across the solidified air, like a bowl of gelatin wobbling when smacked with a spoon. He wondered how effective his blows were: the rules governing interactions between each type of mancery were still largely unknown. With his terrasense, he could feel the power in his sword decreasing with each hit, but the wall in front of him was as invisible to his sixth sense as to his eyes.

A soldier ran up beside him and jumped, trying to scale the invisible wall. His arms and head must have cleared the top, because for a moment he hung in the air, hands thrust forward, scrambling for purchase. But the air, even when solid, yielded no friction or purchase, and a moment later the soldier thumped back onto the stones beside Volthorn.

Desperation added strength to Volthorn’s swings. “Your Majesty!” he bellowed. “Adara! Adara!!”

* * * * *

Adara and her kidnappers emerged onto the same balcony where she had talked with Cymer weeks before. Something massive loomed above them in the dark. Dangling from it was a forest of ropes and ladders.

“Get in basket,” the pirate behind her barked.

Adara looked around. “Basket?”

“The basket!” The pirate dragged her over to one of the ropes, which was tied to a large wicker basket resting on the stone pavers. The moment Adara had climbed inside, the pirate looked up and shouted something.

After a second, the rope went taut, and the basket lurched upward. As the tower receded below her, Adara could make out the cloudship above her, its gondola sleek and bristling with weaponry. She rolled over and looked over the side of the basket.

The castle below her resembled an ant nest, with scores of figures emerging from doorways and stairwells to converge on the royal wing. But it was too late. Already the rest of the Hakiru were scrambling up the ladders after Adara. Somewhere in the melee, a brazen voice kept shouting her name.

The basket stopped with a jerk. Strong hands grabbed Adara and hauled her onboard the gondola. All was chaos around her: pirates were clambering over the side, cutting lines, loading arrows, and barking orders in their strange tongue. The whole ship jerked, and Adara felt her stomach press into her abdomen. They were rising.

“Adara!” a distant voice cried out. “Your Majesty!” It was Commander Volthorn. She could hear his pain and desperation.

Adara found her feet under her, grabbed the gunwale of the ship, and peered over the edge. The castle lights were sinking into darkness below her.

“I’m all right!” she shouted back, not knowing how far her voice would carry.

A hand pulled her away from the edge.

“Ach. What do we do with the wee gal?” someone said with a strange accent.

“Put her under,” a cold voice replied. “We can’t risk her screaming.”

Someone uncapped a vial and held it under Adara’s nose. She struggled, holding her breath as long as she could, but eventually her lungs gave out. As she inhaled, her mind filled with a strange scent. It smelled like sunflowers, and wet grass, and long afternoons. It wasn’t that unpleasant, actually. Just . . . a little . . . soporific. . . .

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Chapter 29, the last chapter I’ll be publishing publicly on my website, is coming Wednesday, May 21.

This story has 57 chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue. The first 29 chapters are being posted on my website.

The whole story is now available for sale! Get the ebook, audiobook, paperback, and hardcover on Amazon or through my website.