The Book of End's End: Fighting Dogs - Chapter 16-18 (Patreon)

Chapter 16

The air was hot on Crow’s skin. Dry, too, and filled with light enough that he struggled for moments before his tightened lids let him pry them apart. He inhaled, then coughed as his throat was scraped raw by dust and hard breath.

Buildings protruded from the ground around him. Squared things the colour of sand and textured like soil, almost obscured by the particulates swirling in the winds. Hills rose far from them, red and yellow rather than green and brown, faces covered with great ripples like oceanic waves frozen in time.

I’m in a desert. Crow realised, glancing around in all directions. What little moisture remained in his mouth disappeared at the knowledge. How in the world could they have sent me to a desert?

He pushed the question down, setting off at a brisk walk and tearing his eyes from the alien structures surrounding him. Awe was a luxury he could indulge in later.

The ground was solid underfoot, a road of stone that seemed of the same sort used in the buildings. Scarred by the elements, face broken frequently by cracks and craters. It appeared to stretch on forever.

Staring ahead to try and glimpse some end to it, Crow felt a sudden stupefaction at the shimmering hot air and sun-blasted terrain ahead.

I’m in a desert!

Somehow, repeating the fact to himself made it no easier to accept. Nor did it serve to fight back the vines of fear and uncertainty already snaking their way deep into his mind, ensnaring thoughts and leaving them hooked and frozen by icy thorns.

He soon began to perspire, but it did little. The heat seeped in from all sides, like water soaking fabric. Making his flesh itch and parching his tongue.

Udrebam’s cold had almost made Crow forget just how much he hated the heat.

He picked up his pace heedless of how it might boil him faster, tightening his jaw against the familiar, wretching discomfort.

By the time Crow noticed the humming of the slate at his wrist, he had already reached the road’s end. He glanced around, finding himself in an open square walled by more sandy houses.

The area was too exposed for his liking, one where attack could come from any direction. Yet his slate urged him into checking it all the same.

Crow was surprised to see text had appeared on the surface, letters thimble-small and closer to silver than white.

Current points: Zero.

A simple message, but a hard one to receive. Being reminded he’d made no progress in the entirety of his trudging walk sent a jet of panic into Crow’s heart, speeding its beat and energising his muscles.

Suddenly not even feeling the heat, he took off into a jog.

He moved no more than a dozen paces before his body was jerked still by a sound equal parts unexpected and chilling. Human speech.

“You know, after a week freezing half to death in this city, I must say it’s oddly cathartic to see a Unixian tormented by heat.”

Crow spun so fast the world became mere lines of colour. His eyes came to rest upon a boy slightly older than himself.

Average height, for his age, yet with a litheness that made him seem taller. His skin was darker even than Karma Alabaster’s, seeming to war with the pale brightness of his hair.

Grass-green eyes met Crow’s, adding luminescence to a smiling face that reminded him very much of the blacksmith’s son in Selsis. A boy half the girls in town had seemed obsessed with.

Touching his magic, Crow felt desperation claw at his mind. It would take seconds before the power filled him enough to be woven into shape.

The pressure he felt from his enemy made it clear the boy’s own magic was already dancing in his fingertips, yet the crippling blow Crow awaited never came.

Instead he simply smiled. Humouring. Patient. Playful.

Crow gasped as Cutaris and Utalis struck his vessel like a cannonball. Filling his blood, strenghening his muscles and hastening every impulse running through his nerves.

He kicked off the ground with a dozen men’s strength, feeling fragile sandstone quiver underfoot as he accelerated to a sprint.

The boy’s eyes widened, mouth gaping as he stepped back seemingly on reflex. Clearly surprised at the speed with which Crow had brought his magic to bear.

A small advantage, and one which would only appear once.

Five paces separated them, Crow cleared them in a heartbeat. He attacked with abandon, letting the magic clear his thoughts of hesitation and feeling himself taken by the frenzy of Cutaris.

The boy parried and blocked, breaking a retreat without pause. One blow after another was guarded, slapped away or left to whistle through empty air by a sudden dodge, but Crow could recognise the exertion in his enemy’s movements.

Moments into the fight his knuckles met the boy’s jaw, rocking his head to one side as they grazed the flesh. Another blow caught his shoulder- then Crow hurled him back with a kick to the gut.

He didn’t let up as his enemy stumbled, charging to close the gap once more and exploit the opening.

Crow’s hands fell upon the boy like hailstones. Knuckles meeting flesh twice or thrice a second, racking his own arms to their joints. That his enemy still stood was testament to a great resilience.

Like striking iron. He thought.

But even iron could bend, and Crow’s enemy proved no tougher. He gave more ground by the moment, body surrendering to the assault even as his will refused to.

Hope sparked in Crow. Pure and energising at the sight of victory so close at hand.

He attacked from a distance with jabs and low kicks, testing blows to hurt and tire. They drew grimaces of exertion from his foe as he tried and failed to turn them away, agitating him with pain and exhaustion.

In moments he reached breaking point, rushing forwards and abandoning his failed defence.

Crow caught a strike against his forearm, gasping as he felt flesh bruise. The blow shunted him backwards a half-dozen feet, coarse ground scraping and tearing the bottoms of his shoes in its grip.

Before he’d even stopped sliding, the pale-haired boy was attacking again.

It was Crow’s turn to defend, and he found doing so a worthy test. His enemy was slower than him, certainly weaker, yet there was a skill behind his motions that Crow had seen beaten by few others.

One expert punch followed another; body, head and legs all finding themselves the target in an order so shifting and irregular that it was all but impossible to track. Bruises welled in a dozen points across Crow’s body, like puddles of burning oil spilled across his skin. He ignored them as he fought.

It’s only pain. Only pain.

He kept his eyes on the boy’s attacks, studying them. Memorising them.

It took only moments for him to spot an opening- the lowering of a guard and slackening of an arm as his enemy inhaled sharply between strikes. Crow watched for it again to be sure, then lunged.

For the second time he saw green eyes stretched wide by shock.

They tightened back, shrinking with pain as his hands closed firm around the boy’s arms. Crow’s headbutt sent stars dancing in his own vision as it threw the other boy back into a stumbled retreat, blood cascading from burst lips.

A curse lit the air as Crow hurried forwards, but he’d taken barely a step before something shifted at the bottom of his vision. It made his heart lurch, instinct rather than thought compelling him to leap back.

He saw the great mass of sand protrude upwards an instant later. Tentacular in form, coiling like a viper. Simulating muscle and sinew in its tension, thrashing with a great kinetic power.

It contorted as it arched upwards, turning its foot-wide body around and darting for Crow tip-first like a thrusting spear. He threw himself to one side, barely avoiding it and flattening himself against the ground.

Sand sprayed in all directions as the stone split behind him, loud enough for Crow to feel through his feet. He rolled, stood and leapt backwards again as a second tendril shot for him, this time arching like a whip at his legs.

Crow’s dodge was a moment too late, the attack catching him across the ankles and sending him spinning like a pinwheel.

His vision blurred, then a thousand stars danced before his eyes as a sharp pain assailed him.

For a moment he couldn’t move, could barely even think. Agony washed over the back of his skull, striking his nerves dead and useless. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, smothering all other sounds and compounding his unfocused eyes to leave the world lost on him.

It took moments for the oblivion to fade.

“Are you alright there, friend?”

Crow didn’t recognise the voice for what it was at first, mind too addled by the pain and disorientation to register speech.

When his boiled thoughts condensed once more, he found recognition buried beneath the urgency of his position. Wordless, he scrambled to his feet.

“Easy there.” Came the boy’s voice again.

Crow found himself staring blearily at his face, blurred eyes still making it a mess as they tried in vain to refocus. His ears were little better, barely catching the tone in his enemy’s strangely accented words.

Is he worried for me?

He didn’t answer, even when the boy’s face finally cleared enough to reveal the concern etched across it. The moment he gave confirmation, that worry could vanish. Their fight would resume.

After seeing his enemy’s magic, Crow intended to claim every moment of rest he could.

Sneaky, of me. And clever. And necessary. Just as it was for Ethi.

“Strong silent type, eh?” The boy asked, an easy smile flowing over his features. White teeth seemed to flash in the sunlight as he eyed Crow. “Or are you just simple?”

Are you so at ease with me, your enemy?

Anger drove Crow to reach for his magic, calling on two more currents and weaving them into Neramis and Manamis even as he eyed the shifting sand below.

His enemy’s hands were by his sides, palms open and fingers twitching slightly as he stood careless. Being taken so lightly struck a match behind Crow’s eyes and filled him with newfound fire.

“I’m not simple, nor do I have anything to discuss with an enemy.”

He caught his tongue a second late, sure it would spur his enemy into action and paralysed with fear in anticipation.

The boy’s smile faltered no more than the shifting tides of sand lapping at his ankles.

“Ah, well I’m terribly sorry then.”

A heartbeat passed without sound or action between them, then Crow felt the ecstatic rush of yet more magic filling him. Almost as soon as his vessel was saturated by Neramis, he Glimpsed a tendril of sand casting his body back.

Crow jumped, wind hitting him like the Goddess’ breath as sand rushed beneath him. He landed a moment later, then cursed as a second sandy whip darted after the first.

With no time to dodge, he guarded it. Feeling the blow like a cudgel against mundane flesh, his feet left the ground. The air at his back feeling almost solid as he tore through it.

He landed with a roll, and it took every ounce of Crow’s focus and speed to end the motion on his feet. There wasn’t a moment’s reprieve before Neramis revealed another attack.

Both tendrils lunged for Crow as one, twisting and coiling around each other like mating vipers.

Leaping back and stumbling from one side to another, he barely managed to remain ahead of the assault.

Sand broke in sprays and masses as they clipped him, threatening to steal his balance and leave him open to more blows. Once or twice he tripped on his own feet, almost caught before throwing himself free just shy of the closing trap’s jaws.

The tendrils were slower than him, but not by much. And they outnumbered him twice over. The pale haired boy seemed skilled in how best to use them, too. One would always attack in the wake of another, leaving Crow no time to breathe or recover. They struck from different directions, beating out their own tempos against his blocking arms and forming a chaotic rhythm between them.

Crow would block ninety-nine blows; yet it was the hundredth which slipped beneath his guard and sent him sliding back anew.

He scrambled up; jerked aside, then cursed as bludgeoning silica nearly spun him by crunching against his shoulder. Forced himself straight, breaking into a sprint for the boy as he saw his defences lull.

Two paces were all Crow managed before the tendril he’d avoided twisted around. He Glimpsed sand exploding outwards like splinters from a jousting lance, arenose limb breaking against his back and pushing him to his knees.

There was nowhere to dodge but down, and for surely the dozenth time that day Crow felt the ground’s hard embrace.

His foot was snagged by the boy’s remaining tendril, then he was yanked up by the leg.

Crow thrashed and flailed, helping himself no more than a hooked and spasming fish. For a few moments he fought off encroaching sand as it worked to coil around his body, then the volume and strength redoubled as the second limb joined its twin in grabbing him.

In an instant his arms were pinned by his sides, held in a vice of flowing stone too rigid for him to shift an inch.

Crow’s stomach lurched as he was dragged through the air before stopping just four yards from his enemy. The boy met his gaze, emeralds clashing with grass as their eyes locked. Once more, he smiled.

“You’re quite fast.” He grinned. Crow felt his face burn, fear running through him like magma. Matched only by the utter humiliation of being taken so lightly.

“If you’re going to finish me off, then do it!” He spat, words shocking even him. “Don’t waste my time with talk.”

The boy eyed him, face half amused and half chastising. No more serious than if he were lending his ears to a child.

“Don’t be so hasty in asking for defeat.”

Crow wanted to hit him. Bite him, even. Anything to wipe the unflappable condescension from his enemy’s face. To have himself looked at as threat, rather than a screaming babe. But more than anything to dismiss his own creeping sense of dread at the ease with which he was beaten.

I’m not even a threat to him. Another contestant- a boy barely older than me- and he’s treating me like a toy.

Something washed over him, sending an icy wind into his veins and threatening to halt the very beating of his heart. The boy’s eyes widened almost as soon as Crow felt it, and in an instant the sand around him parted.

He fell hard, barely noticing. Looking up, feeling his gaze guided by the ephemeral horror filling him, his eyes came to rest on a new, approaching figure.

Taller than most by an inch, broader at the shoulders by three. Crow’s eyes met an approaching man, or something in the shape of one. Instinct made him doubt his eyes.

The black of his attire was ocean deep, staining robes that covered him from head to toe and billowed as a flag might. Steel masked his hands and feet like crustacious shells, clicking and clapping with every step and glaring severely under the fiery sun.

But it was the mask that truly grabbed Crow’s focus.

Bone white and china-smooth, it was a ceramic thing moulded poorly to the face beneath it. Hard and angular, far too stiff and flat to mirror the creases of human flesh. Tinted glass lenses capped the eyeholes, seeming to burn like pooling fire.

“By Her hand did the revelers cease, turning their gift no more to the works of gluttony and indulgence. Inspired by divine direction, they moved the winds of magic to greater ends.”

The mantra was a prayer. Recited with a low voice, growling and deep as from the throat of a wolf. Crow stared as the speaker drew near, every trudging, metallic step seeming to raise his gnawing fear to new heights.

It was then that the crest atop the man’s shoulder caught his eye. Etched with a white as pure as the black around it, so bright as to almost hurt.

A glance was enough for Crow’s memory to pull from its depths the first time he’d seen the symbol. An eye, streaming with tears and engulfed in flame. Printed in a greasy newspaper borrowed months prior.

“Do you know this man?” Asked the dark boy, pulling Crow from his remembrance.

“I know of him.” He answered, not letting the black-shrouded mystic leave his eye. “He’s a killer. Scum.”

“I am an exterminator.” Came the man’s growling tone, solemn and humming with a deep intensity. “A killer of insects. Erring only in my failure to kill more.”

“You’re a madman.” Crow snarled, his vision blurring and fists convulsively tight with a sudden anger.

Even as rage compelled him to speak, fear tried to press him into silence. Crow could feel the power radiating from the man; causing his skin to ache like a frigid cold, his muscles to tremble like a shaking fright.

“What’s your name?” He heard the green-eyed boy ask. Crow answered without looking at him.

“Alright then, Crow. What do you say we call a temporary truce while we deal with this one?”

Chapter 17

Deka ran as fast as her feeble legs could manage.

Magic coursed through her veins like the percussive wave ripping a musketball free of its barrel; granting her strength enough to shatter any human joints that tried to exert it. A pathetic power.

One to carry her glacially by mystic standards, weakened by the lack of potency she dedicated to it, then weakened further still by the natural imperfection of a luminar’s body at letting their faculties grow strong by gorging on the arcane.

That Deka could feel as much magic slipping from her grip as was remaining in it only worsened matters.

Something scraped against stone in an alleyway to her side, out of sight yet rendered obvious as the smooth walls practically hurled the sound at her. Deka froze, turning to eye the area as she prepared for a fight.

She stood amid an ancient Yuyaran city. Pale grey stones bleached by a sun; carved crudely by hand and iron rather than magic, but sporadically decorated in the precise way only the dedication of generational mysticism could manage.

It was a style already dead thousands of years prior, crushed by the ancient Paradisan Empire of Arcane during its conquest of Unix and recorded only thanks to the memory of Immortals. It was a testament to the Alliance’s diligence that memory alone had allowed for such a complete reconstruction.

Typical of Deka’s luck, the Yuyarans had feared the sun as a tyrant and ensured as much of their city was basked in shadow as possible. It made for a terrifying battleground.

Her eyes failed to pick apart the wall of darkness within the alley, though it didn’t stop her from trying. Deka stared long enough for her heart to beat a dozen times before she was confident there was nothing waiting to pounce within.

I’m getting paranoid. It’s only been five minutes.

Taking off into a jog once more, Deka found herself still anticipating an attack from all sides. If nothing else she’d be ready when one came.

Paranoia was not, she supposed, exclusively detrimental.

The air was still around Deka, smelling stale and thin. Abandoned and old. Her pace brought it moving by as a breeze, and she marvelled once more at the skill behind the city.

Yuyaran streets lacked the grand scale of modern architecture, and in under a minute she saw the terrain begin to change once more. Slate giving way to sandstone, Unixian cold to Dewlzian heat.

Buildings were soon replaced by towering plateaus, twice as tall and thrice as wide. Deka recognised the opportunity they presented, keeping her eyes out for one that towered even more.

It didn’t take long to find, and scarcely longer to scale. Gravity made a poor obstacle before the strength of a mystic.

Deka straightened atop the mound of stone, feeling the wind against her body. Redoubled by the altitude, still too feeble to be testing for her balance.

She gazed out over the landscape. From her vantage point, there was no small amount of it to be studied.

The world was an uneven, rocky carpet before her. A mile of yellowed Dewlzian terrain, breaking into watered greenery before, finally, ending as a long, unbroken stretch of desert land.

Far across the pale sands she saw the black spire protruding upward. If Deka’s estimates of her covered ground were accurate, and they were rarely anything but, it was exactly centered in the great stage.

She smiled, starting back down the plateau.

A mental jolt caught her from the slate around her wrist, and Deka’s heart leapt at the realisation of how much stronger it was becoming. Whether she was moving closer to an ally, or they her, the thought of finding help was one to bring comfort.

It shouldn’t. She thought, the notion sinking into her thoughts like a fang into flesh.

If Deka had her full power to wield, nothing she’d encountered would be any more than child’s play. She’d have cut through the Sieve, not scrambled, and surely found her team already.

Her feet met flat ground, and the jittery descent turned into a wind-conjuring jog without pause. Deka buried her frustration, clearing her mind and preparing herself. There was nothing to gain from agonising over what could be.

Jagged stones protested her run, only to be crushed flat beneath her footfalls. She was making good time.

Good enough that she barely noticed the magic-haemhorrhaging presence closing in at her back.

Deka stumbled to a stop, spinning on her heel as power flooded to the very tips of her fingers. She saw the woman charging at her just a moment before releasing great nets of solidified energy.

Luminox shone deep blue in the air like uncharged arcstock crystals. It formed netting cords, shooting forth perfectly like birds in formation. A dozen feet wide, seven high. Marked by minuscule hooks carefully made to grip clothing and hold the construct in place.

She saw a bald scalp disappear beneath the threaded magic, then reemerge a moment later as it peeked out from between two strands. For a second Deka felt pure elation.

The feeling died a moment later; trapped woman seizing the luminox with caloused fingers and prying it apart. It strained for a moment, then stretched and frayed. An instant later it was but tatters.

Deka stumbled back as the woman emerged from the falling material. Her retreat was sluggish, measured against the rush of her enemy, and it wasn’t even a second before she was caught.

A hand grabbed for Deka’s shoulder faster than she could back away from it, closing with a force that sent pain stabbing deep to the bone and dragged a cry of pain from her. Luminox formed in her fingers almost without thought, and she clutched the quickly-formed shiv as tight as she would a rope holding her over Eclipseum itself.

Before the enemy could do anything with her grip, Deka thrust the edged light into her wrist with all the strength she could muster.

The tip bit deep into flesh, prying the girl’s fingers apart as if they’d tightened around hot iron.

Deka turned and broke out into a sprint, pursued first by a howl of agony. Then the pounding of footsteps just moments later.

Fear spurred her on, keeping her eyes up front and her legs unfailing. Her heart thundered as she ran, barely audible over the howling wind.

Her senses seemed to catch everything around her at once. The softening ground as stone turned to sand, the burn of her lungs, heat of the air. Above all, though, she heard the nearing footfalls behind her.

She’ll be on me in no time, Deka realised, listening carefully for the thunderous pursuit. The sound pushed her mind to work, sending mental gears whirring fast enough that they almost hurt.

The land around her was flat and barren, without even the elevation of rocky mesas to give its level monotony pause. Try as she might, Deka could think of no way to turn it against her foe.

From behind, the crunching of feet against stone and sand grew louder still. Deka dared not look back, fearing the precious moments it would cost her. She was sure her enemy could be no more than thirty paces behind.

Do I really strike you as being worth chasing down? Why bother eliminating an enemy so much weaker than you?

But Deka knew why. Alone she was nothing. A nuisance, at best. Any threat she might pose would be in supporting her teammates.

Frustration burned deep and hot at the knowledge, almost enough to distract her from the screaming of muscle.

But she’s right, in a way. If I find my teammates, I can be far more than just a nuisance.

Deka focused on the mental touches of her slate, still bound to her wrist and quivering as she ran, noticing with a sinking heart that it was growing more feeble with every step she took. Her nearest teammate was behind her, then. And Deka’s flight was increasing the distance between them.

To reach her, whoever she was, Deka would have to stop running. Or slow her pace, at the very least.

Moments of thought were enough to decide on the gamble.

Deka dug her heels in, then opened her palms to spew luminox behind her in great hooked sickle-like edges. Foot and blade alike dug deep into the yielding ground, dragging her to a halt far faster than she could have managed with either alone.

She turned, then threaded her will into the hooks behind her. For a moment they tensed like muscles seized by shock, then that tension diverted into a great flexive twist.

Half pushed, half thrown, she broke off to one side already near a sprinting pace. In seconds the sound of her enemy grew, and Deka managed no more than twenty strides before she was forced to stumble back as the bald woman lunged from the diagonal, cutting her off.

Landing hard, rolling rough, she came up in a crouch with luminox already reaching outward and hooking deep into the dirt once more.

For an instant the world was frozen.

Deka stared at the shaven girl just cubits from her, pale and tall where she was black and short. She saw rips and singes dotting her foe’s clothing, clear signs of more than one fight already won, and a focus to chill her bones glared out from behind brown eyes.

Then the luminox tensed, dragging her back with a speed to scatter thoughts and numb sensation. Deka twisted, landing turned around and sprinting before hurtling away in the exact opposite direction she’d run before.

Seeing her trajectory of choice must have stunned the bald woman, for Deka managed to take almost half a dozen steps before the chase began anew.

She wasn’t sure how long the newest bout of running lasted.

Long enough that Deka’s already strained lungs changed their protests from pain to agony. Long enough that she could feel each muscle of her body simply by the lactic burn as it bled through to sear her flesh from within.

Long enough that the pounding footfalls at her back closed ever inwards; from five dozen feet behind to less than a score, then nearer still. So close that Deka was sure she could feel hot breath on her neck even amid the stage’s growing heat.

She almost wept upon reaching her goal. Luminox shot out before her, laying flat and sloped against the face of the plateau.

It welcomed Deka with an embrace of steadiness, shifting beneath her feet to ensure she remained upright even in spite of the uneven elevation and letting her run continue with nothing more than a drop in speed.

Alarmed cursing from behind let her know when her persuer had reached the construct. She almost smiled at the thought. A path that changed and contorted in response to will was only of use to the person whose will it had been tethered to, after all.

Deka reached the top moments later, then, smothering fear with the rush of combat, threw herself over the edge.

The wind howled, bringing tears to well from her eyes and whipping them across her face. For just a few seconds she was weightless; moreso than she’d ever felt just swimming or finding new strength from magic.

Then she landed, her heels slamming down hard as the rest of her followed. She stumbled, almost toppled, righted herself and ran once more.

Deka spared only a single thought to her slate, hope sparking once more within her at the realisation that its alerts had grown threefold since she first noticed them. A chance.

She ran like she’d never run before, as if a cannon fired each time her heel met the dirt. Magic propelled her almost as fast as gravity had, and all the pained protests of her tortured body were lost behind her flight’s adrenal haze.

By the time a darting shadow warned of the bald woman leaping to join her at the base of the plateau, Deka had already left her five hundred feet behind.

Red and brown leaked to grey ahead; the ancient Yuyaran structures cutting a dark figure in the distance. Any other time Deka might have found herself given pause to rush so quickly towards them, but the ease with which the enemy had torn her constructs banished all doubt.

Barely a minute passed before Deka found herself surrounded on both sides by the Shrouded Era’s dull grey architecture, and the sudden lapse in dry heat was like water to parched lips as she ran.

The ground was hard, yielding not even a hair and serving to hasten her stumbling sprint.

Better than before by far, Deka could hear every step the bald woman took through the conductive stone. The space between them was half what it had been. Perhaps less.

She focused on the humming of her slate, trying to drown her fear. It was no use; hearing the stampeding strides once, she couldn’t help but make note of each one that followed.

My slate is calling so strongly, now. Surely I’m close.

Deka had no way of knowing; for all she knew there was a mile yet separating her from whichever of her team was nearest. Even half or a quarter would be too far for any chance of reaching them in time.

The hope she’d felt flickering to life perished like a candle under rain. Despair feasting on its deathrattle.

Footsteps grew ever louder behind her, a hundred feet away. Deka felt frustrated tears build as exhaustion robbed her of yet more precious speed.

Sixty feet. Then fifty. Thirty.

The slate around her wrist practically howled, warnings growing strong enough that they were more akin to contortions. She swore the leather strained to hold it.

Twenty feet. Then, once more, a dozen.

Deka screamed blindly and recklessly; condensing all the fury and hate running through her to a single note, then spitting it out to poison the air.

She spun, luminox already coiling around her fists and eager for blood. Her enemy’s eyes bore no shock, she hadn’t expected them to.

Deka had played too many cards to surprise the girl with any more.

Jagged blue magic streaked from her like javelins, arcing towards the mystic with a speed that would surely have outmatched Deka’s own reactions. Their target wasn’t so slow as that.

The first struck her shoulder, tearing brown fabric and showing a flash of crimson ichor as it rocked her slightly. Before the second could land, the woman had already ducked downwards.

Deka cursed as the lance of luminox shot high, already focusing to weave another weapon. Too slow again.

Her guard was raised just in time to catch a punch, but it still threw her back. She skidded along the ground, feeling the thick clothing of her back tear as she flipped over a half dozen times before stopping. Deka was grabbed before she’d even realised which direction was up.

Stomach lurching, she was plucked from the ground like a leaf in the wind. Almost before she knew what was happening, the girl slammed her back down onto her back. A dozen spears of pain thrust through her, jarring viscera and rattling bone. Deka couldn’t help but scream.

The sound was pinned in her throat as a hand tightened around it, cutting off blood and breath alike with a single, iron squeeze. Panic burned in an instant, and Deka raised her hands again.

Her fear grew a hundredfold when the girl slapped her arms down, scattering the luminox before it could congeal and strengthening her grip.

Colour leaked from Deka’s vision just as the cobalt of magic was driven from her.

Her heart, already like a drumbeat, seemed to grow louder still as blood pooled in her head. Panic overcame her, mindless and without rationality. Inherited from her bestial ancestors before even magic.

Deka thrashed, bucked and snarled as she tried to free herself. Arms flailing without luminox, wielding only the brute strength of her magic and muscles.

Her chin dipped, neck straining to bring her mouth close to the hand that held it so harshly- teeth poised to sink into the skin and flesh beneath. It was too far by inches.

The world grew quieter and darker as the strength left her, every passing second seeming to leach power out of Deka’s body. She suddenly felt a great tiredness mingling with the pressure in her skull, coaxing her to relax and sleep.

Why shouldn’t I? My fate was sealed the moment most of my magic abandoned me. The only thing to achieve in struggling on is to delay the inevitable. Better to let myself lose quickly and easily. Painlessly. I’m hardly entering for my own sake, regardless. What does it matter if the Alliance thinks me weak?

Letting her arms slacken, Deka felt her eyes tugged shut by the exhaustion. It almost brought a smile to her face; peace, finally, after such a long and pointless struggle.

Yet before she could slip completely away into unconsciousness and await transportation, the hand disappeared from her throat. She heaved without thinking, drinking the air.

Deka’s clearing vision showed the bald girl stumbling, chips of stone flying as though fleeing from her feet. Before her was another girl, shorter by half a head and with a scalp wreathed in straight, pale blonde hair rather than shaved barren. Her fists were clenched, elbows tucked and body compacted into a brawler’s stance.

She watched as the two girls eyed one another, marvelling at the sudden caution within the bald one’s eyes.

Suddenly the shaved mystic didn’t seem so large, nor so fierce. Diminished by her own fear, stripping away all fevered illusions Deka’s mind had cast and leaving the human beneath laid bare.

They moved almost at once, one going low and the other high. A kick met the guard of an elbow, turned aside at the shin.

Before the shaved girl could right herself, the blonde countered. Her own heel lashed out, sinking deep into ribs and driving air from the larger mystic. Deka might have cheered were she able to form words.

She watched as the shaven girl staggered again, blindly throwing one punch after another as if fighting to slow her enemy rather than wound them. It mattered little, for each blow was either smacked aside or deftly evaded. In moments the blonde had closed in regardless.

Fists flew, elbows hooked and knees thrust upwards like lightning rebounding from the earth. The entire confrontation couldn’t have taken more than a half-minute, but by its end only one of the mystics stood.

Brown eyes turned to Deka, stilling the ever-thunderous beating of her heart as she realised the slate on her arm had fallen quiet.

The blonde girl studied her impassively for a moment before speaking.

“So, you’re my teammate?”

Deka could hear the disappointment in her voice, but the girl appeared content to let it be known. It irked her, sparking fire enough to speak.

“I am.” Deka said. “Deka Xenus. Might I have your name?”

A smile from the girl.

“Astra Tempora.”

Chapter 18

Crow charged, feeling rather than seeing the sand rush forth beside him as he closed in. His enemy’s hands danced, fingers contorting and wrists flexing as the air took on a hot, electric taste.

His strain showed him the attack just in time to dodge, as it always did. Even so Crow felt the hairs on his back shrivel and blacken. A great heat washing over his stumbling form.

It slowed him enough for the coiling sand to overtake him, twisting ahead like swimming snakes and arcing unwaveringly towards the enemy. Silica scattered in all directions just feet from its target, breaking like clay against stone.

Straightening back to a sprint, Crow reached the man a moment later.

His fists clenched tight enough to hurt themselves as he punched. A hurried attack, born from uncertainty and confusion at the enemy’s unseen defence.

Pain met the blow, leaping back from knuckle to wrist as Crow’s hand rebound. The shock dulled his senses, even so he saw clearly that, like the sand, his strike had been halted long before it found flesh.

The cloaked man gave him no more than a few stunned moments to ponder the knowledge before waving a hand, casting Crow back with a rush of wind and a lurch of his stomach. The desert coughed dust into the air as he landed fifty feet back.

Blurred vision showed the man advancing, crimson energy leaping from darting palms like sparks spat from a campfire. The pale-haired boy retreated from his assault.

Sand coiled about him, shifting like a whirlpool before Crow’s eyes. He watched as it twisted, thinning in some places to thicken in others. Just where the enemy struck.

With each attack particulates flew apart even as more were dragged from atop the ground to replenish them. It was, Crow realised, the ability’s true strength. An ever-regenerating wall.

And yet it was breaking down.

Each attack left the mass smaller than before, every block sent its wielder retreating two paces further.

Exertive sweat glistened across his neck, hands shifting frantically to conduct magic. Even with his efforts so clearly focused there was nothing he could do but delay the inevitable.

Seeing such a strong adversary overwhelmed nearly froze Crow where he lay. He pushed past the fear, feeling his guts squirm like nesting rats as he shot to his feet and ran once more.

Circling around the clashing mystics, Crow kept his eyes on them. He studied the pace of their battle, scrutinising as much as he was able and eyeing every detail. They set an obvious pace, and in only moments he saw his chance to strike.

Crow closed in with three bounds, pivoting and snapping out a kick as fine as any he’d thrown before. It might have taken a fence post’s head off, but failed to even reach the man.

The enemy turned his head fractionally, yet oddly slowly, gaze snapping to Crow with an intensity he could feel even through the sterile, lifeless mask.

With barely a gesture he released a blast to send him spinning backwards through the air. Crow landed hard, folding already at the wind being driven from him.

Grunting, he rolled over onto his stomach. His attempt to stand was interrupted by a sharp stab of pain as something shifted in his belly, then a bottomless gasp as bile soured his mouth and dirtied the sandstone.

Pit. How powerful is he?

Few were ignorant of the fact that mystics strengthened as they aged, nor that the rate at which they did was never quicker than between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Crow had entered the Sieve prepared to meet those with far more power than him by his youth alone.

An adult, though, wasn’t something he’d feared he might need to fight. He coughed, then spewed more vomit to hiss and congeal under the glaring sun.

How in the world will I ever be as strong as this?

Careful not to jar his tortured insides again, Crow raised his head to stare at the ongoing fight. He saw it through a tear-blurred screen, distorted vision making the pace no less obvious to him.

The pale haired boy was still fighting, face tightened and stiff with concentration, arms flickering one way and another like fighting birds. The air around him was tinted by diffusing grains.

He cut such a fierce sight that Crow almost allowed hope to take root in him.

But no face was strong enough to hide the boy’s struggle. His arms moved more sluggishly than before, sand coiling at their gestures proving thinner and shallower. There were perhaps only seconds remaining before the defence was shattered.

Crow cursed upon realising his charge hadn’t so much as bought time, then cursed again as he climbed to his feet for another.

He bulled forth in spite of the pain, darting towards the pale-haired boy rather than the cloaked man.

His ally stiffened as Crow reached his back, perhaps expecting a betrayal. Instead Crow waited for his chance. It came to him when, at last, the defensive sand grew too thin to guard at all.

It was then he pounced, leaping through the few remaining grains like a stone thrown through glass. He hurled an elbow, felt it scrape against the unseen barrier between him and his enemy, then righted himself and lashed out with a kick.

The second blow was no more effective than the first, save for shunting the man back a foot as it left him unharmed. Crow saw gauntleted hands rise, braced himself to be yet again cast like a discus.

Instead motion blurred by his side as the pale-haired boy threw a kick of his own. The blow stopped no nearer the man than any others, yet Crow saw something as it rebound from the unseen wall. A distortion of light, faint and swift as a sunbeam caught by smoke.

A shield. He realised, feeling an altogether new kind of hope- born of logic and reason rather than blind faith.

“He has a shield!” Crow cried out, not bothering to hide the elation in his voice. A shield was something he understood; magic hardened for defence, a wall of energy. Something that could be broken down and pushed through.

His ally raised both arms as a blast of red light collided with him, flung from sight in a flash.

Crow had only a moment to realise that he was suddenly alone against the man. He Glimpsed himself careening like a rocket, slamming hard into a sandy wall and falling to lie still.

It was all he could do to stamp both feet hard, digging them into the stone and anchoring himself as the blast struck his guard an instant later.

The stone churned and split where heels dragged through it, leaving inch-deep furrows in the ground’s face before Crow flipped free.

He flew three yards further, flipping and rebounding from the ground before coming to a rest thirty feet from the nearest building. Momentum killed by the tortured earth.

Crow scrambled up a heartbeat after stopping, breaking into a run even against the pained protests of his body. He saw sand lancing like lightning ahead, then the pale-haired boy staggering back a moment later. Before another thought could sprout in his head, he was on the target.

Sand scattered against the shield just feet from Crow, parting like a curtain as he landed before the enemy.

He rained blows upon the barrier without pause, ignoring the pain in his hands and ache of his muscles as he beat it like a drum. The assault lasted seconds before his enemy moved to counter.

Seconds? For a mystic? How slow are you?

Crow saw no Glimpses, wonderment banished by the realisation that there was nothing he could do to avoid the attack.

But the crimson light was smothered by shifting sands, explosion choked amid it. Silica scattered, trailing smoke and glowing a hot red.

He stood stunned and motionless for a heartbeat, surprise bleeding to stupefaction. An instant later Crow whipped into motion.

A lactic burn built within him, pain replacing strength. He ignored it. Continued attacking, heedless of protesting flesh and crying bone.

Soon it was the cloaked man who retreated, his arms still moving to unleash jets of energy as they had before- yet thrown up hastily, desperate. It would still have been enough to cast Crow back as it had earlier.

But it didn’t reach him, the tides of sand lapped in a defensive rhythm to foil each attempt. He put his own shield to good use, banishing all thoughts of guarding and focusing only on breaking down the wall ahead.

Slowly, gradually, one strike at a time, he managed it.

The shield’s transparency died quickly; strain bringing darkness to its form, catching the light and making clear its depth and shape as refracted light moved across it like broken veins. Crow could see it buckle beneath each strike, deform and shift as it tried to retake its previous, shape.

The sight gave him hope.

One punch, then another. Strike by strike, blow by blow. Don’t bother with anything fancy, just wear him down.

The shield grew less stable by the second, its surface soon closer to the waves of an ocean than a sheet of glass. Crow struck ever more, feeling a sudden desperation as he noticed once more his ally’s sand was nearing its limit.

How long does it take him to recollect it? Longer than our enemy would need to attack me.

He banished the fear, sublimating it with the fury of battle. Cutaris made the mental shift easy enough to scare him.

Strike, strike, strike. Like a smith working steel, Crow continued. He stared at the shield as it wavered, sure that each fluctuation would end it, every deformation would prove its last. Then cursing when it held. The sand grew thinner, his fists ever more tender.

Crow thought his heart might explode at the tension, every passing second carrying a fear to make his veins ache.

And then the balance tipped.

For a moment the shield remained strong; then seemed to warp and shift like a marble crushed underfoot. It vanished from sight, filling Crow with fury and despair at its restored transparency.

How the fuck could it repair itself? After all that?

The confusion didn’t stay his hand for a second. With a cry born from instinct, Crow punched once more. It was a thoughtless effort, one he expected fully to be futile.

Crow’s knuckles found no resistance in the barrier, instead sailing deeper and farther by four hands. They stopped only upon meeting the mystic’s face, snapping his head back with no more resistance than they’d have found striking a pillow.

The man tumbled and flew. Crow stared as he rebound from the ground, clothes tearing and dragging where they scraped against stone- growing soiled by sand even as his movement cast it into the air.

When he stopped, Crow expected him to stand. To hurry up and defend himself. Instead the man lay still.

“Looks like he’s a glass-bone. Lucky us.”

Crow turned to the pale-haired boy as he spoke, confusion apparently evident on his face.

“A mystic without access to abilities that can strengthen their body. All the power in the world, held in a frame no tougher or quicker than an inept’s. No wonder he used that shield.”

Looking back to the unmoving, splayed man, Crow found truth in the boy’s words. It hadn’t felt like he’d struck a mystic’s skull, even with his power robbed by over-reaching.

He made his way to the fallen man slowly, cautiously. Not eager to make a surprise attack easy, no matter his confidence.

It was, as he might have thought, a wasted effort.

There were no jaws to close about him, no guillotine to drop its blade. Only a broken man. Spluttering for air and retching bloody, bile-filled spittle to leak from his mask into the sand.

The pitch of his robes was sullied, marred lighter and dusted by his roll across the grime. A lens in one eye had been cracked, the other popped out entirely and left somewhere in his wake. He seemed smaller, to Crow’s eye. As though injury had stripped away height as well as strength.

Seeing him writhe in the dust brought Crow’s mind back to what he’d said upon first approaching.

“Any scriptural quotes about this?” He asked, looking down at the quivering man. Magic still radiated from him, though Crow doubted his enemy was in any condition to use it.

Muttering came from the man, low like his previous words. Racked with pain in place of fervour. Crow couldn’t hear enough to understand, surprising himself with anger.

“Speak up!” He snarled, bringing his foot down on the man’s leg.

His gut churned at the sensation of bone giving way, just as fragile and human as the pale-haired boy had hypothesised. A calcic spike erupted from the black fabric about his enemy’s leg, smeared with blood and jagged where it had snapped.

Crow marvelled at the fracture, taking a moment to be awed by his own strength. He’d not put much effort behind the stomp.

The mystic’s screams brought him back to focus, eyes moving over the man as he spasmed with agony.

When the agonised thrashing finally stopped moments later, Crow saw tears.

“Answer me.” He snapped. He should have known better, pain had paralysed the man’s tongue.

“Calm down,” Came the pale-haired boy’s voice. Crow turned to see him approaching, concern marring his face. “We’ve already won.”

“So he’s helpless.” Crow countered. “Helpless and at the mercy of a mystic. Sound familiar?”

He directed the question at the wounded man, hoping to see him daunted. It seemed to ignite fury and defiance where he’d wished for fear.

“Don’t compare me to the vermin I destroyed!”

Crow stepped towards the fallen mystic, then found himself stopped by a firm hand about one arm. He turned to the pale-haired boy, meeting his eye.

“Let go.” He demanded.

“What will you do if I do?”

“Why do you care?” Crow retorted, pulling his arm free and stepping back from the boy. Suddenly cautious, aware that the lynchpin of their alliance lay bloodied at his feet.

“I care because it looks like you’re planning on killing a man while he can’t fight back.”

From the corner of his eye, Crow saw the mystic stiffen at that. Terror freezing even the trembles of shock.

“And if I am?”

“Then I’ll stop you.”

For a second Crow found himself wanting to test the boy, even to strike him without warning and steal the advantage. Instead he simply stepped back, unclenching hands he hadn’t even noticed curl into fists.

The tension easing from the pale-haired boy almost made him wonder whether he’d have had a chance.

“Blessed are those with caloused hands.” Mumbled the man, eyes unfocused behind his broken lenses and head slumping back. “Sacred are the workers, the toilers. Holy are the doers of divine work, doubly so the invidious.”

It was clear his mind was a dozen miles from the world. Hidden behind a dazed fog of pain and zeal.

Crow took in the whimpering mess before him; feeling hate give way to disgust, sickening wonderment and the alien touch of an entirely new sensation. Pity? Surely not for such scum as that.

A light built around the man, growing to a harsh glare before giving way just a moment later. When it cleared, the hooded mystic left with it.

His eyes flickered to the slate around his wrist, not missing the luminous letters newly etched across it.

Current points: Three hundred and fifty.

Crow’s heart sank. He’d fought for perhaps ten minutes, five at the very least. Alabaster had mentioned the possibility of points reaching the thousands. To be stuck in the low hundreds with such a fraction of the stage over left him swilling bitter fear and panic around in his mouth.

“That’s that then.” Said the pale-haired boy.

Crow spun, focusing for a fight. To his surprise the boy had already begun a hasty walk away.

“I’ll be seeing you.” He called back, voice betraying none of the uncertainty threading Crow. “If you manage to make it past this stage, at least.”

“What’s your name?” Crow asked. Something about the boy struck a familiar cord, and his power alone was cause to assure he could identify him later. The mystic answered without pause or suspicion.

“Rajah.” He said, voice dripping with a seemingly bottomless confidence. Seeing him saunter away, Crow found himself unable to begrudge his attitude.

Once again he looked at his slate, staring as if the numbers might increase from concentration. They remained as they were, and a great unease grew.

At this rate, I’ll contribute nothing. One fight and a few hundred points is far too little to show for this stage of the event.

Even as he pondered the issue, Crow’s solution was obvious.

The Prime Target Alabaster had mentioned would surely yield greater reward than any other, and even Crow could recall its location. The centre of a map was no difficult place to find.

Taking off at a jog, he scoured his surroundings for a vantage point high enough to find his direction.

Magazine advertisement Poster, Location: Udrebam.
Circa 1,195 I.E.