“We are all going to die, yes?” said Zarie, ever the optimist.

“Probably,” said Kveld.

“Bollocks to both of you,” said Baldreg. “’Tisn’t the time for defeatism. ’Tis the time for boldness!”

As Garrain cast his eyes out across the seemingly endless waves of monsters and magic closing in around them, he had to concur with Baldreg. If they truly believed they were going to fail, then they would. And they could not fail. They had to endure whatever the Primordial threw at them, buying Saskia’s group the chance to strike at him directly. They had to destroy him and save the egg. Any other outcome was unthinkable.

“Aye, be bold, Baldi, but don’t be stupid,” said Ruhildi. “Let mine and Garri’s minions soften them up afore leaping out there and being a hero.”

Ruhildi’s minions consisted of swarms of dead animals and bones she’d unearthed in their journey across the Hall of Eternity. Garrain’s awakened trees were considerably fewer in number than both her minions and the vast swarms commanded by their foe, but they were a force to be reckoned with, nonetheless. Xonroth had reshaped them into many-limbed monstrosities that swung spike-tipped branches with the strength of nine trows. With some effort, Garrain had wrested control of them off his foe. His magic could only reach so far and command so many, though. The Primodial, meanwhile, held a vast swathe of the forest under his sway, while simultaneously channelling many other spells. It was inconceivable for one being to wield this much magic, yet there was no denying what he witnessed.

While Garrain and Ruhildi commanded their first line of defence on the ground, Nuille and a swarm of frostling tempests had taken to the air. The latter focussed their efforts on snuffing out the towers of flame that sprang up around the area. Garrain didn’t know precisely what Xonroth intended to do with those things, and hoped by all the arbor that he wouldn’t find out. Nuille, meanwhile, swooped overhead in dracken form, dealing flames of her own to incinerate the incoming swarms of flying creatures.

“Fight well, my light,” he murmured.

Their next line of defence was a barrier of air created by Zarie and Renia and a small number of frostling tempests. It was a one-way barrier, blocking entry from outside, while allowing their projectiles free passage, and indeed, guiding them toward their targets. Volley after volley of arrows and crossbow bolts swept out into the dark globules of viscous slime slithering between the trees, to devastating effect.

Garrain’s awakened trees and Ruhildi’s minions might just barely hold the rest of the forest at bay, but they could do little to stop these creatures. The cursed black slimes could absorb anything in their path, save the ground itself—whether it be tree or walking corpse or wild animal. The only way to bring them down was by a well-aimed shot to a single vulnerable location on their topsides. With the help of Saskia’s farstriker magic and the tempests’ control of the air, the archers were able to hit the desired spot more often than not.

But though the archers vanquishing the slimes with impressive efficiency, more kept coming, faster than they could be slain. And more were coalescing on the ceiling of the vast chamber, ready to replenish their numbers. These were not living creatures but magical constructs. Garrain’s allies would not be rid of them until Xonroth himself fell.

Meanwhile, the three eternal Chosen surveyed the battlefield from just beyond the reach of the arrows—waiting for the right moment to strike.

A long tendril of fire licked out of a looming flame tower, reaching for Garrain’s allies with mindless hunger. The frostlings on the ground turned their gazes—and their ice magic—toward it. Others in the air swarmed around the base of the pillar of flame, cutting it off at its source.

Neither group was fast enough. In the moment before they snuffed out the flame, it swept downward—not for his allies as he’d expected, but for the gathering slimes that surrounded them. And then they were slime no longer, but balls of fire, reaching greedily for their neighbours. One after another, the creatures ignited; a great wave of rolling fire that quickly engulfed the entire swarm.

These creatures showed no sign of discomfort at having been set on fire. Indeed, they seemed to have gained strength from it. The barrage of arrows that moments earlier had been felling them in droves were now having little effect. Only after the frostlings managed to douse the flames on some of the nearest slimes did they become vulnerable once more. All around them, the fiery abominations probed at the tempests’ barrier.

Without warning, the barrier on their left flank faltered, and in they poured, sweeping across Rania and her mer and alvari defenders as though they weren’t even there. And within moments, they weren’t.

Swarms of frostlings surged to that side of the formation. The air grew noticeably cooler as they threw everything they had at the encroaching enemy. Fires went out in an instant. Arrows streaked into the slimes with desperate intent.

Garrain sprang into action, forming wooden spears at the ends of his hands, thrusting each one in turn into the weak point of a different foe. His magical weapons dissolved an instant after they struck, but they had served their purpose. The creatures were deflating like punctured balloons, shrinking away to nothing. He conjured another set, and turned them against the next pair of slimes behind them.

Following his example, Ruhildi and Kveld turned spears of stone against the foes on his right, slaying three of them instantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Baldreg loosing a triple burst of crossbow bolts, then springing forward with sword drawn. Myrna hurled a fan of daggers before doing likewise. On the other side, Vask and her trows unleashed a final barrage of crossbow bolts, before turning pikes on the enemy, and in a few cases, claws. Those who didn’t have weapons would lose limbs, but that was a price the trows were willing to pay for survival.

A piercing shriek tore the air asunder. Sparing a glance backward at the source of the noise, Garrain caught sight of Zarie, standing with her arms raised, her face a mask of fury. Sparks lashed at the ground around her. Her flesh seemed to soften and disperse, spiralling up into the air.

No, she was the air, he realised. This wasn’t an attack from without. This was her doing.

Zarie’s scream grew in intensity as she became one with the storm. It went on and on, rippling across the battlefield in waves. Darkness fell over them, and his world became a screeching maelstrom of frigid fury. He dropped into a crouch, and threw his arm across his face to protect himself. The air was so thick he couldn’t see more than a few arm-lengths in front of him, in any case.

Something loomed overhead in the darkness. In the instant before he thrust another summoned spear up into it, he took note of its once amorphous form, now rigid and covered in a thick layer of ice crystals.

Instead of subsiding, the slime shattered, falling into fractured shards of darkness at his feet.

It seemed an eternity before the chaos subsided, and he could see again. In truth, he knew it had actually only been a few hundred heartbeats. Everywhere he looked, there was ice. Ice and blood and splintered trees and shattered bones.

Garrain fought to quell his rising despair. So few of his allies remained. So very few. They had known the cost would be high, but this…

Baldreg leaned on his crossbow, his eyes blazing bright with rage. Myrna stood beside him, blades at the ready. Kveld stood in blackrock form, arms encased in stone spikes. A skeletal figure stood a short distance away; dark bones encased in coils of shining arlium. It was Ruhildi, he realised, stripped of her duanum shell, which lay in tatters around her. One arm was missing, and a portion of her torso. Ithanius had likewise lost his weapons and much of his armour, but his body was remarkably unscathed. He stood in just a few strips of cloth, fists clenched. Vask and Aele held each other for support; the latter had lost a hand. Other surviving trows were in even worse condition. A fistful of scattered frostlings poked mournfully at piles of their dead.

In their midst, a shimmering form coalesced out of the receding hurricane. A mer once more, Zarie sagged to the ground. Her hair had turned purest silver. She looked to have aged half a greatspan in an instant.

Kveld rushed to her side, and she leaned against him.

“I could not save them,” she gasped.

“You saved us,” said Kveld. “You have done more than enough. Now rest.”

With a shuddering sigh, she closed her eyes. Only the soft rise and fall of her chest told Garrain she yet lived.

Casting his eyes upward, Garrain exhaled in relief. Nuille still prowled the air, now largely clear of beasts and bugs.

The sound of a curse brought his eyes groundward once more.

“We still have work to do,” growled Baldreg.

Garrain followed his gaze to the three Chosen now charging toward them. Ondite the trow, Tulpa the gebling, and Burinold the dwarrow. They were fast—far faster than they had been before they became Chosen. Understandable, but it caught him off guard nonetheless.

Baldreg fired off a triple-volley in their direction, but the trio leapt aside effortlessly, and kept on coming. Garrain followed it up with a scorching sap spell, but predictably, he got the same result. Spears of stone and shards of bone didn’t so much as slow them down.

First to arrive was Ondite, charging full-tilt into them like a living boulder. Garrain and his smaller allies leapt aside, while Kveld just barely managed to pull Zarie out of the way. Vask, Aele and a fistful of trows who attempted to meet her charge fell back, battered and bloody. A frenzy of flailing claws and gnashing teeth stained the ice red.

Burinold was right behind her, holding what appeared to be some sort of stubby hand cannon. As he ran, he aimed and fired. The cannonball smashed into a wall of stone Kveld had hastily raised between them. The wall exploded, but another rose up in its place.

Baldreg returned fire, forcing Burinold to dodge aside. Burinold loaded another cannonball as he spun, and turned and fired again. Growling, Baldreg drew a long blade and sprang forward. Myrna and Kveld closed in behind him, blades and stone fists poised to strike.

Garrain turned his attention to the third Chosen, Tulpa, who dashed out from behind Ondite. He dashed to intercept the tiny gebling. Ithanius reached her first, launching a flurry of blows at her head and stomach. She blocked them with ease, and unleashed a devastating counter-attack that he only narrowly avoided.

What followed was one of the most impressive fistfights Garrain had ever witnessed. The eternals had an economy of movement that could only have come from endless spans of uninterrupted training. It wasn’t so much their speed that stood out, but the timing of their movements. Ithanius was larger and stronger than his opponent. Tulpa was by far the elder of the two, although the difference those additional greatspans of practice made were not easy for Garrain’s eyes to discern, until the frenetic exchange was over.

With a loud crack, Ithanius’s knee twisted backward, and he fell with a cry of agony.

Garrain shoved the drengar out of the way before Tulpa could finish him. Her foot lashed out at Garrain, and he hastily sidestepped, sending a spray of paralysing thorns at her.

Her foot missed his own knee by a few hand-widths, but he still felt a shuddering impact across his whole leg. Were it not for the enhancements bestowed by his symbiote, his bones would surely have broken. As it was, it felt as though he’d been struck by a spiked cudgel in every place at once.

If a near-miss could hurt this much, what would a direct hit do to him? He prayed he wouldn’t find out.

If his thorns had hit her, they didn’t seem to have slowed her down much. A lightning jab drove at his groin, which he just barely blocked with a summoned greenshield. The shield cracked, and he sprang back, channelling a binding roots spell beneath her.

One of the roots coiled about her ankle. She stomped down with her other foot. The ground shuddered. Stone splintered.

Without warning, a wide hole opened up in the ground beneath her. A look of surprise registered in Tulpa’s eyes as she plunged into the dark depths. The hole snapped shut.

Garrain shot a grateful glance at Ruhildi. He could be fairly certain she was the one who had dealt that spell, because Kveld remained engaged in his battle against Burinold. Ruhildi returned Garrain’s look with that unblinking eye of hers. Something writhed between her ribs.

Burinold, Kveld, Myrna and Baldreg were all fighting hand-to-hand now. Swords flickered almost too fast for his eyes to perceive. The ground heaved around them, driving spikes of stone toward Burinold. Baldreg had wounds on his thigh and forearm, but they didn’t seem to be slowing him down. Kveld was slower than the others, but his blackrock form afforded him considerably more protection.

Garrain had barely taken a step toward them when Burinold lost his head. Baldreg’s blade clattered to the ground as he took hold of the now-headless corpse.

Elation turned to shock when Garrain saw the enemy Chosen’s hand still curled around the hilt of his sword. The sword that now protruded from Baldreg’s back.

Baldreg slowly sagged to the ground. Kveld, Myrna and Ruhildi were at his side, supporting him. Garrain had no idea how Ruhildi had gotten there so fast. Her body was little more than a skeleton, wreathed in arlium.

“Baldi,” said Ruhildi. “I can’t—I wish…” She bowed her head. Her bones trembled. “Give my love to Freygi and Nadi and all the others.”

Baldreg smiled up at her, and shuddered, and went still. The light in his eyes went out.

Not wanting to intrude on their grief, Garrain turned his attention back to Ondite. The Chosen had ripped two of the trows to shreds, but Vask and Aele were slowly tearing their way through her immensely thick hide. It would only be a matter of time until…

A tremble in the ground beneath Garrain was all the warning he got. He stepped out of the way just as Tulpa burst out of the ground. Her clothes were torn; her face a rictus of fury as she stared into Garrain’s eyes.

Summoning another spear he thrust it at the gebling. She shattered its tip with a disdainful chop.

And then, without understanding how he got there, he was on the ground. Slowly, dazedly, he began to realise that something was very wrong. A spear had been driven straight through his chest, pinning him to the ground. His own spear.

Tulpa twisted the spear, and he felt his insides shift.

Then she exploded.

There were bits of her in his leaves and on his face and sliding down his…oh deus.

Stepping over the pile of gore was Nuille. Her eyes were wide with concern. “Ardonis, are you…no, clearly you’re not alright! Let me tend to that.”

“I’ve…had better days,” wheezed Garrain. He was somewhat surprised that he could even speak. Nuille’s hands glowed bright with healing light, but Garrain waved her off. “It is time for me to do this.”

“Are you…certain?” she asked.

“If I do not, I will die as soon as we withdraw the spear. Not even your magic can prevent that. There is no other way.”

Locking eyes with her, he called upon his own magic. It answered his call hesitantly, as if uncertain what he intended. Focussing on the new pattern, he gave the spell form.

The change was excruciating, but it didn’t last long. And after it was over, he felt a surge of renewed strength. Not just renewed, but…improved.

A touch of his hand was all it took. Both ends of the splintered spear shrank, and receded into his body, before it vanished entirely. But no blood issued from the wound. In fact, there was barely a wound.

There was no flesh. Only smooth, supple wood.

Rising smoothly to his feet, he turned to the last surviving Chosen. Ondite was swinging a severed leg like a club, attempting to fend off Vask. It wasn’t her own leg. Aele lay on the ground, trying to staunch the flow of blood from her…stump.

Garrain took a step—and as he stepped, he expanded. In an instant, he towered over the tiny trows. Branches and leaves sprouted from his head and shoulders and arms. He took another step, and brought his roots down, hard.

He ground his roots into the dirt. A red stain spread beneath it. When the twitching ended, he raised his roots, and peered down at the corpse, just to be sure. Ondite may have been a stone trow, but inside, she had still been flesh and blood. Now she was nothing but a puddle of mangled meat.

Satisfied, he shrank back down into a more normal size. The branches receded—but didn’t entirely disappear.

“What did you do?” asked Ruhildi, her single eye narrowing.

“I am alvar no longer,” said Garrain. “I am something else. First of my kind. But I hope not the last.”

Ruhildi opened her mouth to speak—then her eye widened. “It’s Sashki. She’s—och bollocks.”

The world around them seemed to waver and flex. As one, they all slumped to the ground.

He stood on a narrow stone path, separated by a strip of grass from a larger road. A wheeled cart with glass windows zipped along the road, drawn not by animals, but some magic beyond his understanding. The survivors of their recent battle gathered at his side. Ahead of them stood Saskia and…

“Get away from her!” shouted Ruhildi, who had rather more flesh on her body than she’d possessed in the waking world.

Xonroth, standing further down the path, turned to face them.