50

Metal vs Magic

Candle and Jotham retraced their steps through the winding passages of the catacombs and emerged through the glamoured door into the dark underbelly of Gwavas Keep. As they restacked the boxes and barrels in front of the wall, a dull thud reverberated through the corridor making them pause. Jotham cocked his head on one side, listening, while Candle reached out a tentative hand to touch the wall. The rough stone of the Keep shuddered as she touched it, and she snatched her fingers away.

"Time to go," said Jotham, turning on his heel, and Candle hurried after him, frowning.

The crowds of people had melted away, leaving behind a tense silence that Candle found disconcerting. The passages were as deserted as earlier they had been full and all the iron shutters were closed. The hallways were cast in gloom, the shadows thick and full. Candle jumped as something heavy smashed into the Keep.

"Let's leave from upstairs," said Jotham, raising his eyebrows and turning to stride up the great stone staircase. Candle hurried after him.

"What's happening?" she said, wincing as another crash made the stones groan. Dust drifted down from the great ceiling above.

"I imagine your barbarians are paying a visit."

Candle's heart leapt into her mouth, and she rushed to the first window they passed, throwing open the iron shutters. The grounds of the Keep were thick with stinking black smoke and the air cut with screams and cries. Candle, raised a hand to her eyes, to ward off the acrid fumes and the horror of those sounds, blinking as the stench of those rising fires reached her nostrils. She leaned out over the sill, her hands shaking, trying to see what was happening. For a moment she was standing in the ruins of Hanternos watching her family burn. But this time it was Gwavas and her adoptive family that were in danger. She ducked down as the hulk of a massive airship passed close by, trailing a great cloud of soot and debris. She caught a glimpse of metal plated men before Jotham pulled her away with one hand as the Lochlanach sprayed the walls with shot. Chunks of masonry went flying and Candle coughed, her pulse quickening.

"Let's get out of here," said Jotham, who was leaning casually against the wall, his arms folded. The violence didn't seem to bother him but his eyes were hard. "This could get messy."

"Messy!" demanded Candle as she followed him up the stairs. "People are dying. You could help them."

"No."

"No?"

"Why would I embroil myself in the affairs of humans? Leave them to their madness." He turned and regarded her. "I thought you did not approve of killing?"

"I don't," she said, "but this is self-defence!"

"Semantics," snapped Jotham. "Let's go."

They reached the top of the tower and leaned out over the air. Candle coughed as the acrid scent of black powder filled her nostrils. She stared at the billowing fumes trying to see what was going down below.

"Once you are in the air," said Jotham, considering the chaos outside the window, "fly straight up till we are above all the nonsense. I don't feel like getting caught by a stray bullet. Once was enough. I'll wrap us in an illusion rune that makes us look like rising smoke. Hopefully we can pass by unnoticed. Ready?"

Candle nodded, clenching her hands by her sides. Where were her friends? Were they safe? What were they doing on that Night cursed battlefield? A small part of her, the cowardly part, was glad she was not with them. But even as the thought crossed her mind she rejected it. If any of her friends died today she would never forgive herself for leaving them.

She followed Jotham out of the window, free-falling for an exhilarating moment before transforming into her dragon body. She followed the larger dragon straight up, working her wings to catch him. Her enjoyment was short-lived, however. From this height the scene of the battle was laid out before them in devastating detail. Six airships hung over the valley, systematically pounding the walls of the Keep of Gwavas, and its defenders with heavy fire. Four smaller vessels slipped nimbly through the air, harrying the men and women below. The outer walls lay in rubble, and most of the smaller buildings lay in smoking ruins.

Candle and Jotham flew up and over the battlefield without incident, but when Jotham turned for home Candle did not follow him. She turned and settled instead atop a rocky outcrop of the Guardian, anxiously searching the battlefield below for her friends. Jotham landed heavily beside her.

"So are we watching now?" He said. "It won't be pleasant."

Belias billowed into being next to her, and leaned out to watch the battle with a wide, hideous grin.

"We should hunt," he said. "So many waiting to die. Why should they not be ours?"

She ignored them both and continued scanning the grounds. She couldn't find them. It was hard to see what was going on with all the smoke and fires burning everywhere. From so high up all the Ancestors' Own looked the same, small figures dressed in green and grey. She swallowed, trying to figure out what was happening. It seemed to her that the battle had not been joined for long. The valley floor was narrow and the ships had limited manoeuvrability, being hemmed in by the mountain slopes. This was the only thing that was keeping the Own from being utterly slaughtered, or so it appeared to Candle.

However, the situation was already desperate. At the top of the serpentine pass, rows of Ancestors' Own were attempting to set the sails of the airship alight with little success. Their bows and arrows were not powerful enough to reach the heights needed and they were being pushed backwards, step by inevitable step. Occasionally one of the Own would get in a powerful enough shot but most fell short, their arrows falling back to the earth in graceful, ineffective arcs. Elsewhere teams of Own were lighting smoke bombs, making the already hazy battlefield worse. But what Candle could not see the Lochlanach could not see also. She watched as a group of Own popped out of a hidden pit with masks wrapped around their mouths and noses. They let off stinking clouds of green gas that made the barbarians reel and cough, some of them hanging over the ships to vomit.

But knowing Delen would be with the archers Candle turned her attention back to them. Her pulse quickened as she located her in the thick of the fighting. As Candle watched Delen sent up an arrow that buried itself up to the feathers in barbarian's left eye as the small ship made a low pass. The man fell, toppling over the side of the airship to land on the earth below with a dull thud. The body lay still, crumpled at an awkward angle, and Candle moved her lips in a silent prayer for the dead. But Delen's shot and those like it were the exceptions. The barbarians in the closest ship were advancing, picking off the defending Own with deadly efficiency. Candle lurched on her rock as Delen deflected a bullet with a skilful blast of air and then before sending arrow into the air. However, arrows and magic were a poor defence against the ferocity of the Lochlanach weapons and the woman next to Delen fell to the ground, a red spot blossoming as a bullet penetrated her forehead.

It was unbearable to watch.

Candle bunched her muscles ready to leap into the chasm.

"Look," said Jotham, "they are setting a trap."

He was right, Candle realised - the Own were not giving ground but rather deliberately luring the airship towards a thicket that shone with illusion spells. The Own with the poisonous bombs were herding the ships away from that corner, and the retreating archers...

Candle nearly toppled off her ledge trying to see what was hidden there but she could not. The trebuchet, she realised with a jolt. They were leading the airships into range of the trebuchet. What looked like a rout was, actually, a deadly and deliberate game of cat and mouse. Delen's archers, despite giving the appearance of being in retreat were working as a tight-knit team, carefully coordinating their attacks and conserving their magical energy.

Two ships lumbered after the retreating archers and soon enough the first was in range. Members of the Own sprang from their hiding spots, revealing the wooden structure, pulling on the ropes and moving with frantic energy over the sling. With a shout the beam rotated and the trebuchet let its payload fly. A molten mess of rune enchanted metal flew through the air, colliding with the main structure of the airship and punching a hole straight through the deck. It landed with a thump and an evil hiss in the river below, while the barbarians screamed and scurried on the deck above. The ship sank abruptly and listed heavily to one side, threatening to send all its crew flying over the edge.

The Own pressed their advantage, letting fly a volley of flaming arrows which flew high and wide, ripping through the airship's billowing canvas and setting everything they passed alight. The trebuchet flew again, but this time the shot was aimed too wide and the molten metal of its projectile smashed into the cliff of the Guardian, and showering barbarians and Own alike with rocks and pebbles. The molten ball slid to the valley floor and set a copse of silver trees alight. The smoke mingled with the screams of the Lochlanach who were fighting to right their vessel and blended with the thicker, burning stench of the buildings and thatch that were already alight.

A small, nimble Lochlanach airship cut through the haze and turned broadside. It didn't carry many cannons but they were enough. Candle gasped as it angled itself towards the now revealed trebuchet and with an ear-splitting boom reduced the wooden structure to splinters and scraps.

Delen and the archers turned and ran, and the small ship gave chase. It could move faster than the men and women below could run and Candle held her breath for a dizzy moment, her talons gouging into the rock. Two men went down, and Candle could see the cannons being prepared but before they could fire the Own smashed smoke bombs into the ground as they ran, adding a thick blanket of grey smoke to the already hazy air that hung over the valley grounds. For a moment they were visible as ghosts in the haze, and then they were gone, lost in the smoke. The cannons rang out but the barbarians were firing blindly. When the last smoke had disappeared, there was nothing but churned rock and earth below. They had vanished, presumably into the underground passages and pits that the Mester had prepared earlier.

"They've only taken out one airship," said Candle. "What now? The trebuchet is destroyed."

"They will all die, anyway," said Belias. "Why prolong the agony?"

The ship the trebuchet had hit had sunk to the valley floor and was a smoking ruin lying in a mess of rigging and smashed timber. The surviving Lochlanach were scrambling away from the rising fires and climbing aboard the smaller vessel which had looped back and stopped to collect them. The Own did not neglect the opportunity to ambush the survivors, emerging from their traps and tunnels to shower them with arrows and projectiles. The Lochlanach aboard the smaller ship covered their retreat and there were heavy casualties on both sides. The valley floor was soon littered with the screams of the dead and dying.

Candle turned her face away, struggling to watch. Where were the rest of her friends? She thought she saw Pasco cutting his way through a cluster of grounded barbarians, but she could not locate Locryn or Jory in the chaos, and Delen had disappeared with the other archers.

"Eisheth will have a plan," said Jotham, lounging against a rock with reptilian grace, but his eyes were bright as he watched the scene below.

"The Mester cannot save them," said Belias, and for once Candle had to agree. Even if the Mester acted, people were hurting. People had already departed for the Night never to return. As Candle watched one of the walls of the Keep slid to the ground and the whole of the eastern section crumbled in on itself in a great pile of dust and debris. A cheer went up from the airships, and Candle was glad that she knew the building was empty.

"Look," said Jotham. "Eisheth comes."

The Mester had emerged from her hiding place and was standing resolutely on the battlefield. She was surrounded by a group of grim-faced Own and throughout the valley Candle could see small groups of Own setting up short, squat catapults and directing them skywards. What were they doing? This looked like another coordinated attack and for a moment she felt her hope return.

The Mester lifted her face and her arms to the sky, and Candle leaned forward, wondering what magic the woman was working. She could see her face was screwed up in concentration, but she did not have to wait long to find out. The Mester released an immense pulse of magic into the air in front of her. The shimmer spread, and spread, and then it was swirling and solidifying, rippling up and out. The late afternoon light bent around the form of the magic, coalescing into something solid, coalescing into something so vast it was bigger even than the largest airship. It was an illusion of epic proportions, although of course the Lochlanach would have no idea the creature was spun out of light and magic.

The creature the Mester had created was the stuff of nightmares - a vast insectoid thing, some sort of eldritch millipede easily three hundred feet long. It writhed upwards towards the closest ship in a turning, gestating mass of pincers and gleaming silver body armour. A set of evil blue eyes fastened on the men who cowered before it. The airborne monster's sides brushed against the wooden railing. Candle watched open-mouthed as the Own below pelted the rail in a coordinated attack with rock and pure magical energy that made it look as if the monster was smashing the railing. If she had not just watched the Mester spin the creature out of weak sunshine she would have run screaming herself. It looked so solid, so heavy, a nightmare creature as it twisted in gleaming silver coils through the air.

The silver of its body was somehow hideous and beautiful, and Candle wondered how the Mester had imagined such a creature. She had never seen a glamour worked on such a scale and wondered briefly and painfully what her father would have thought if he had lived to behold such a wonder. The Mester's terrible creation was beyond the skill and power of any of the great artists of the Reach or even Mires Orth. An illusion of such size was one thing but to make it twist and turn like a living thing, it was beyond Candle could imagine.

She stared down at the sliding, slithering body and was afraid, even though she knew it was an illusion. She prayed briefly to her Ancestors that nothing so awful existed in the world. The barbarians, of course had no idea it was an illusion with the scattered Own working in concert to make the physical effects real. Where the creature touched men or ship the Own made sure to hit, crashing splinters with rock and fire. The barbarians screamed and panicked, and Candle did not blame them, it was truly terrifying. The ship lost control and smashed sideways into one of the smaller vessels with a great splintering of wood and canvas. The two ships went down in a tangle of sail and the Own rose from their places of concealment to fight hand to hand. The giant silver monster disappeared, its body scattering into the ether, and Candle saw the Mester bend over with weariness.

That was three ships down, thought Candle. Two of the large airships and one of the small, nimble vessels had been destroyed, but many members of the Own had given their lives to make it so, and they were tiring.

What was more the remaining ships had spotted the Mester and were bearing down with loaded weapons.

"I should help," said Candle.

"Yes!"

"No, leave the humans to their war."

"But-"

"They will be fine," Jotham said, "as long as Eisheth is fighting for them. That woman could take down all the ships if she so chose. She could disintegrate them into little pieces if she wanted to. She's holding back. Leave them be."

Candle watched the tiny figure of the Mester below. She stretched her arms wide, and the sails of the closest airship burst into flames. The barbarians rushed to put out the fires, with buckets of water and sand. Perhaps Jotham was right, thought Candle, perhaps everything would be fine, but the Mester, no matter how powerful, was just one person. She looked so small and so vulnerable as the ships bore down on her.

It was too much, thought Candle, as she watched from her precarious seat on the top of that windswept peak. No matter what Jotham thought the Mester could not hold back the entire might of the barbarian invasion by herself. Or could she? The Mester's guard kept up a barrage of arrows as the menacing hulk of the largest airship approached, sweeping into position, the Mester firmly in its sights. Simultaneously, Candle noticed the smallest, most nimble of the Lochlanach airships swinging round at an angle, and her breath hitched in her throat.

"They will be fine," repeated Jotham, "so long as Eisheth stands."

On the largest ship, the barbarians were readying their weapons - rows of men with rows of guns. As one they fired at the Mester. She lifted her hand, deflecting the hail of bullets with a careful sideways push of air. The metal shells fell harmlessly to the ground, but they had served their purpose, distracting the Mester from the projectiles that hurtled from the small, stealthy ship, making contact with her head as her attention was distracted by bullets. She fell sideways as a cheer went up from the barbarians.

As one the airships turned, sweeping over the Mester's prone body and bearing into the remaining ranks of Own with violent ferocity, bearing down on them with a murderous hail of firepower and explosions that left the air thick with stinking smoke. Men and women in green fell to the ground and did not get up.

"That's enough," said Candle, and stood, flaring her wings.

"Yes," said Belias, "let's go."

"If you go," said Jotham, from behind her, "I can't come with you."

"I know."

"I will not get embroiled in the affairs of humans. My purpose is to guard the Gate, at all costs. I cannot risk it. You shouldn't risk it. You are vulnerable to iron. There is too much metal down there. I cannot protect you."

"It doesn't matter." She launched herself off the rock. She beat her wings hard, to get some height. "I can do something. This time I can do something."

She didn't look back at him, and his next words were a faint whisper in her mind.

"You have no magic; you must leave the demon out of it."

"It doesn't matter."

She tucked her wings into her sides and dove, like a vengeful whirlwind of doom bearing down on the Lochlanach who were slaughtering her family.

"Try not to die!" Jotham shouted after her.

Candle found she was angry, angrier than she had ever been. The air rushed past her scales, and she extended her talons ready to rip and tear. Finally she could do something. Finally she could act! It would be a dark delight to give in at last to the rage and anger burning in her chest. She felt the power of her body, really felt it for the first time. She was no longer helpless, no longer a cowering child. She would protect her new family, even if it killed her, with tooth and claw - but she needed to be fast - before the barbarians could turn their weapons on her.

She launched herself at the closest airship, exploding through the sails and crashing through the masts. Her attack was so unexpected, and so ferocious that chunks of wood and men went flying. The men on the decks below shouted in fear, and she pressed her advantage smashing into the outstretched wings of the ship. She tore them to shreds, ignoring the myriad small cuts to her body the blood in her veins rising. Something hissed past her shoulder, stinging her and drawing blood. She turned with a roar, instinctively swinging her tail, sweeping a row of cannons and men overboard like dolls off a table.

"Kill them all, give them to me."

She ignored Belias' voice and twisted, breathing hard, her talons leaving deep gouge marks. Why wasn't the ship falling? She had destroyed all the sails. Her eyes flickered to the silver runes that were worked into every inch of exposed wood. They gleamed with magic and burned with a steady intense flame. They were moonsilver runes, the Lochlanach were burning moonsilver! That must be what kept the heavy vessels aloft. Destroying the sails and wings would not be enough; she needed to destroy the configuration of the runes themselves. She tore into the decking, keeping an eye on the last group of barbarians who were attempting to creep up on her with swords drawn. She turned quickly, swiping sideways with the girth of her tail, smashing through the last remaining mast and clubbing the men over the edge. They plummeted screaming into the blackened valley below.

She swallowed as their bodies hit the ground - hesitating - but as her gaze swept out over the once tranquil valley her heart hardened. The air was ripe with smoke and the bitter taste of expired gun powder. She blinked the soot out of her eyes and rode the wave of her anger. She bit down, tearing chunks out of the wood and spitting out the burning runes with a roar. The moonsilver burned her tongue and made her dizzy but to her delight, her strategy seemed to work. The ship careened sideways, and it spun downwards. She pushed off the edge of the ship and took flight before the mangled remains could crash onto the rocks below.

Directly in front of her, cutting off her retreat were the three remaining ships - line on line of cannons, pointed at her and ready to fire. Candle felt a thrill of fear and soared up, beating hard for the open sky, knowing her life depended on her speed. High, she needed to get high. Up she went, over the mountains, the breath squeezing out of her lungs, and her ears popping. She felt a moment's relief as the wind touched her cheek in a gentle caress, but they had not fired yet...did she dare to look-

The world exploded in a mess of black and red. A roaring white-hot pain ripped through her left side and a sheen of red dropped over her eyes. She screamed and her voice bounced back at her, echoing off the rocky face of the Guardian Peak. Her wing had been hit, she could feel the hole in her flesh, the muscle and bone left exposed. She was starting to fall. Suddenly her body was too heavy, too dense. It was too much. She gasped, the air ripped from her lungs, fighting for breath. She clawed at the air, the exposed tendrils of flesh flapping in the wind, the rush of air making the sensation worse. She tried to move her wings, but it hurt so much.

"Let me help you."

"No!"

"I can heal you. Just give me the deaths. GIVE THEM TO ME."

It was too painful to fly, she was going to die. No! She had to try. She gritted her teeth and beat her wing, pushing through the agony, through the red hot haze of her pain, but it was too much. The pain overwhelmed her and darkness closed in.

When she opened her eyes she was dropping like a stone.

"Let me help you."

She tried to move, tried to regain control. This was not how it would end. She refused to believe this was all she could do - that she would give her miserable life in exchange for one paltry airship. Anger and grief coursed through bones and she beat her wings, screaming at the pain, struggling to stay aloft. Below her, the Lochlanach had reloaded and the guns were aimed at her. Somehow she saw the shots coming. She was dangerously low and bullets whistled past her but she managed to dodge. Her turn was too slow and she was still losing height, struggling to stay in control.

The fact that she wasn't hit again was more luck than skill on her part. A moment later a fresh pain blossomed in her right wing as a bullet bit into her scales, and she choked off a scream of rage and frustration. The world spun out of control as she fell.

"GIVE ME THEIR DEATHS and I will make the pain go away. Let me make it better. I can make it all better."

"No."

"Is this how you want to die?"

"No."

She looked down, trying to angle her body so that at least she could smash through one more ship before hitting the ground and embracing the inevitable death that awaited her there. She did not want to die, but at least this way her death would be clean, and perhaps she had made a difference. Perhaps Jotham and Locryn and the others would mourn her as she travelled to the Night. The world rushed by her and she squeezed her eyes shut, a tear wetting her cheek. Soon her face was wet with tears - but no, those were not tears. It was rain, fresh, glorious rain that was splashing her onto her face in great, juicy droplets of water. She opened her eyes and stared up in amazement at the clouds that were rushing to form above her falling body.

Great dark storm clouds swirled into being, huge storm clouds that rotated in a massive vortex of moisture and wind with Candle at the very centre. She grinned as the water drenched her, turning her black scales shiny and slick and washing the demonic essence from her body.

Thank you, Jotham, she thought, and a ripple of amusement echoed back along the link in her mind.

Working fast she gathered in the energy, pulling the threads and cast the healing rune with one trembling claw. She breathed in instant relief as her bones knit and skin formed anew, stretching over the wounds until the pain became a distant ache. The rain had come not a second too soon and she was only just able to pull up in time, yards above the earth.

She banked as a fresh hail of bullets hissed towards her, soaring low, testing the healed flesh. It was not perfect but it would suffice. She watched as the little men below scuttled and rushed to prime their weapons. She pinwheeled through the open sky above the valley, the rain splashing her scales and her great wings pushing away the thick clouds of smoke with every pull. The rain dampened the fires below. She considered - her wings might be mostly healed, but she wouldn't be able to finish the job while she was in flight. She needed to be smart, but now, Candle thought, as she contemplated the remaining ships, now the barbarians should fear her. The thought was thrilling in the extreme and gave her confidence. She watched as they angled their cannons towards her, the rain falling with a fury that Candle felt in her freshly made bones. To the west the sun was setting and the skies were darkening quickly due to the maelstrom of cloud. A deep boom rang through the valley as the bells rang out below. It was twilight.

Candle let out a roar that shook the mountains as she dived towards the airships. She felt the rush of energy intensify as the worlds converged and her blood surged afresh. She threw back her head and an incandescent plume of blue fire streamed from her mouth, scorching its way through men and wood. The Lochlanach broke and scattered before her onslaught, and she bore down on them without mercy, her scales glittering blue in the refracted light of her fire.

She sent a spear of light through the small vessel while harrying the larger airships with flame and claw. The cannons roared, but she flew fast and wild, twisting out of their path before delivering a devastating return shot of Starfire. The magic glowed cold and luminous under the darkening sky, leaping across the decks in a deadly arc and killing every man it touched. The barbarians locked and fired their guns, unloading round upon round at her with increasing desperation. She dodged and twisted, avoiding the majority of rounds but pain bloomed on her body where a trio of bullets struck her. She fought on with determination, her anger, sixteen years in the making not letting her stop until the remaining Lochlanach broke or were sent to the Night. She flew up and over, to catch her breath, grinning as she beheld the devastation she had wrought.

Shouts rang out on the ships below and the Lochlanach pulled on the ropes, dashing about the deck and hastily extending their wing sails. The remaining ships turned, making their way down the valley and trailing thick smears of smoke, despite the heavy rains. Candle circled them on high, enjoying watching the barbarians scurry, but she held off another attack. The bullets in her sides were working their way into her body and the dull pain was becoming a symphony of torture.

With something like regret she came to rest on the topmost tower of Gwavas Keep, her talons scraping the tiles, her sides heaving as she breathed in and out. She looked out at the retreating airships as they vanished over the mountain tops with no small amount of satisfaction. They would think twice before returning.

Her talons slipped on the tiles. The adrenalin was leaving her body, and she was exhausted. Looking down at the bullets embedded in her flesh she lifted a talon and traced the healing rune once more but it did nothing. They were too deeply embedded in her flesh for the spell to work. Someone would have to dig them out for her by hand, as she had once done for Jotham. Her grasp on the roof tiles slipped as the stinging iron portion of the bullet casings worked its way into her bloodstream, disrupting the flow of her magic. The rain poured down on her, making her purchase on the roof slick, the water mingling with the blood from her freshly ruined wing.

The final bell tolled out to announce the beginning of the night, and Candle sighed deeply, satisfied that she had done her best. She shut her eyes, and felt the rain fresh on her face. Slowly, with a smile on her face, she fell forward and dropped off the roof.