Chapter 18: Rage |
Standing in a line with twenty other men, blinking, and realizing you’re suddenly alone. That is what it is to face one of their gods. Nothing makes sense anymore. Life and death are too close to one another.
An Account of the Elven Conquest
Solomon kept screaming. He fell to the ground, writhing around as black energy arced around him like lightning. He threw himself across the ground, vomited, and cried as his body struggled not to tear apart under the strain of what was now inside of it. It was as if he was drowning in the heart of a black ocean, and every drop of water within it was forcing itself down his throat.
Somehow, he drew himself to his feet and made it to one wall, bracing his hands against it for a moment before he drew his head back, and suddenly and forcefully smashed into it, falling backward immediately afterward. There was a brief moment of pain and clarity, and he hung onto it like a man on a piece of driftwood in the midst of a terrible storm. He crawled toward the walking stick he’d dropped by the binding circle. Looking at it now it seemed almost as if it was glowing within his vision. Reached toward it, and when his hand touched the hilt he was surprised that his mind cleared a bit.
It was a focus. A staff for casting. Of course it was, given everything else about his uncle it made sense that his walking stick would be such a tool. Even with the mindfulness it granted him, his entire body was shaking as he felt the mana flow into and out of him, his skin feeling like it would start to tear from the force of it. He pushed that to the side and began stumbling toward the stairs, wiping the vomit from the side of his face with a handkerchief and dropping it on the ground as he moved. He pressed the sigil to open the library, thinking of all the spells he’d memorized from the Basic Spells and Foundational Magics book. None were for combat, but when enough mana was put behind a spell, any could be damaging. That had been a warning in the book, but now it was a blessing.
As he stumbled out, barely keeping his feet, he heard the sound of feet rapidly approaching. He turned toward them, his vision blurry and filled with strange lights and colours, some of which he couldn’t name. A vaguely guard shaped form ran toward him with something in his hand.
Solomon extended a hand with his wrist pointed downward and his fingers straight down as well, then he flicked his wrist upward until the flat of his palm was facing the man, putting all of the mana he could feel writhing inside him into it.
“Gust,” he whispered.
There was a roar as wind flew from his palm with such force that both the man in front of him, and the one behind him were thrown back into the stone wall behind them, their bodies crumpling into lifeless heaps as their spines were broken.
“Spark”.
A spray of white hot orbs of fizzing flame shot from his finger into three men as they crossed the threshold into the library. They screamed as the sparks hit them and fell to the ground, writhing and screaming as their flesh was scorched.
Again Solomon nearly lost his balance, but he was ready this time, and steadied himself on his walking stick before he began walking forward. He didn’t hear anyone else approaching, but he didn’t want to leave his people in danger any longer.
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His vision had started to clear a bit and he could see the singed corpses of the guards that attacked him even as he carefully stepped over them. They smelled like cooking pork, a thought which may have made him vomit had he anything left in his stomach to spare. Against the wall was a nasty shock of blood where the first two men had hit, and their corpses were awkwardly laid atop one another beneath it.
Solomon felt no sympathy for them. Just as it was his job as a noble to lead and look after his people, it had been their job to protect the people of Moonfallow. They hadn’t just failed their duty, they’d betrayed it. He’d’ve spat on them if he could have.
He braced himself against the wall as he moved. He could hear yelling and cries from the sitting room, but he couldn’t make out the words until he’d gotten a bit closer.
“- happened back there!? Klein!? Leonard!?” yelled Marcus, his voice tinged with a mix of rage and concern. “Neuman, get down there!”
As a man ran into the corner in front of him Solomon raised a hand holding two fingers up with his palm forward. He covered his own eyes with his arm as he braced against the wall to keep from losing his balance again.
“Light.”
A blinding white light extended from the tips of his fingers and the man screamed.
Solomon retched, finding that he did have a bit more in his stomach to vomit, and saw the man on the ground rolling around holding his eyes.
“I’m blind! Oh gods, it burns!”
The man had dropped a dagger that already had some blood on it, some of his servant’s blood. He fell toward it, grabbing it in an unsteady hand before making an ugly lunge onto the blinded man and plunging it into his chest. He held it there with his body weight, feeling the man writhe beneath him for a few moments, a final cough sending a spray of blood into Solomon’s face as he passed.
Darkness was encroaching on his vision as he pushed himself to his feet, his walking stick bearing the brunt of his weight as he dragged himself forward until he reached the sitting room. His vision was still a mess of kaleidoscopic color, but he was still able to assess the room quickly.
There were now only seven guards standing including Marcus. His own servants outnumbered them by nearly two to one. A few had some knicks, and bruises, but aside from Barnabus and Claire, who must’ve been the one that had stabbed the dying guard on the floor, they weren’t badly injured.
“Your men are dead,” said Solomon.
Everyone’s eyes went to him, and they all widened as they saw the usually immaculate noble covered in blood, the sleeves of his coat singed and burning, and his hair matted against his face with sweat.
“How-” started Marcus, but Solomon cut him off.
“You should run. There’s no way you're getting away with what you’ve done here. All you have waiting for you is death by torture, and gods, it will be slow.” The darkness was closing ever more on Solomon’s vision as he spoke. He didn’t think he could even raise his arm to gesture for another spell. His head felt as if it would pop if a pin pricked it, and his muscles felt as if they were going to separate from his skin, the tips of his finger bones felt as if they would pierce through the skin of his fingertips making the flesh spread like the petals of a flower.
“No,” said Marcus with surprising confidence as he drew a dagger from his belt. “I cannot be beaten here. A Bythar has never fallen in Moonfallow.”
He lunged at Solomon, who couldn’t even fall quickly enough to avoid him. Marcus grabbed him by the hair and drew his head back to expose his neck. Solomon’s eyes drifted to his servants.
For just a moment, the image of his servants changed. The guards became men in the uniforms of the Empire’s soldiers. Their crisp green uniforms so dark they were almost black. His servants were elves, their clothes torn and their bodies beaten. The soldiers were laughing as one of them slit an elf’s throat. Another of the men dragged one of the women from the group toward the cover of the brush. One of the elves tried to stop it, and three men threw him to the ground and began beating him.
Solomon howled and somehow forced strength into his arms, stopping the knife before it could draw across his throat and tearing into Marcus’s arm with his teeth, tasting blood and fabric as he ripped his head back.
Marcus screamed and dropped his knife, letting Solomon go tumbling to the ground.
Bart lunged for the dagger and stabbed up into Marcus’s guts with both of his hands making him scream as he fell backward. A decorative vase flew from outside the room and hit another of the guards, Melissa revealing herself as the one that threw it as Duncan came from behind her with a long riding crop that he slapped across one of the other guard’s faces. The other servants joined in, quickly overpowering the now outnumbered and surprised men.
Solomon spat a clump of fabric and flesh from his mouth and finally lost consciousness, his body hot and feverish even as an icy pocket of air settled over him.
