Book 8: Chapter 92: Three
In one fluid movement, Eleanor’s dress was replaced by armour and a red surcoat bearing a flaming phoenix. A sword appeared in one hand, shield in the other. Without hesitation, she charged Martel, her weapon raised to decapitate him.
As her sword came swinging with enough force to cleave a mountain, Martel raised one hand and caught the blade. If magic was everything and everywhere, it was reversely also of no consequence. No matter Eleanor’s empowered strength or the sharpness of her blade, no spellcraft wielded by her could defeat the power that Martel possessed – unless he allowed it. All of this was another contest of wills; Martel would not yield.
And so he held her sword, edge pressed against his skin, yet unharmed. “Eleanor, look at me. Do you not know me?” He stared into her face, which he knew so well, and yet it seemed a stranger’s to him in this moment.
She appraised him. “Blue eyes. Black staff. Red robes.” For a moment, his hope grew as her gaze met his. “No.” Pulling her sword back, it sliced his hand open. From the throne behind her came derisive laughter.
Eleanor attacked again, striking with magical strength and a blade sharp enough to cut stars. Acting on instinct, Martel defended himself with his staff, retreating. He had plenty of spells available to deal with an opponent, and he had no doubt that his willpower would prevail against hers, allowing him to injure her.
But he could not contemplate that, of course, as Moloch had counted on. Martel had seen people burn alive so many times; their screams of agony as they slowly, all too slowly, died. While he could not kill Eleanor in this place, he could easily torment her.
“Eleanor! Remember!” Martel spoke with the magic of domination in his voice. Countless memories flooded his mind. Attending the Lyceum together. Fighting in the catacombs underneath Morcaster. Surviving the forests of Khiva. Exploring the forgotten places of the world, battling monsters. Seeing the lantern of the Tyrian gods across the horizon, or crossing the desert with the trade caravans to reveal stars unknown to them. All of this, Martel bid her recall. “You must remember.”
She took a step back. “I do not. My life is servitude to my mistress, eternally. There was no before, and there will be no after.” Once again, she struck at him.
Martel parried as before; he suffered no danger, as long as he kept his guard up. Submitting to Moloch had its consequences; bound by a greater will, Eleanor was constrained in her own power. But being stronger in a contest of might only helped Martel to defeat her, not free her.
Mental magic had not been useful; Martel could not dominate her mind and force her to break free, to remember. But that was not his strength either. He was the Sage of Archen, and he had deeper spells to employ. As Eleanor attacked him again, a sweeping blow to vivisect him, Martel stepped into the attack. With one hand, he caught her wrist to arrest the strike; the other, he placed on her helmet. In the true world, he would never have been able to accomplish this; Eleanor’s empowered speed had always been superior to his. But here, he was in full mastery of his powers. Through the steel that covered her head, Martel released the magic born of his soul. Not a spell to harm, but to heal, the ability he had received pondering the very nature of magic upon a Tyrian mountaintop.
Overwhelmed, Eleanor staggered backwards, out of Martel’s grip. She blinked and removed her helmet. “What did you do?”
“Break free, Eleanor!” he urged her. “Remember who you are. The Warrior of Archen, Malac’s chosen! Remember the pact we swore, the trials you undertook! You are nobody’s thrall,” he proclaimed, “but a leader of men!”
She looked at him, but her eyes were vacant, and he knew that his attempt had failed. “I know nothing of what you speak. I serve Moloch. I have always served Moloch.”
Shrill laughter emanated from the throne once more. “You have failed. Admit it and bow to me!”
“Not yet.” Martel was down to his final effort. From his inner pocket, he retrieved the cloth given to him by Nebo. With a fluid motion, he unfolded it and placed it on the ground, revealing it to contain a portal circle.
The fiends clamoured, changing size and shape to assume monstrous forms. Moloch bristled. “You dare flee? But your own words bind you! Our bargain stands!”
She was right; even if Martel wanted to, he could not step into the glowing circle and flee. He had made a deal, and the magic of this world made it true. “Our bargain stands,” he repeated. “But I never said I’d do this alone.”
With a flash, Atreus appeared. The fiends screamed, but they were all subjected to Moloch’s will, and like Martel, she was bound by her words. Only one of her servants could act. “Kill them!” Moloch shrieked.
Eleanor rushed forward to attack. Grabbing Atreus with one hand, Martel caught her wrist with the other, halting her sword. The spellbreaker did the same, seizing her by the shoulder, completing the circle of three. Far above, the ceiling crumbled and fell around them; through the gap, the stars of this world shone upon their chosen favourites. The Triumvirate of the Heavens was mirrored on the ground, and their light found reflection. For all her might, all her cunning and knowledge of the Nether, Moloch stood alone. Bathed in red, blue, and white light, the Triumvirate of Archen found each other, and the power of three proved stronger than the power of one.
“Martel?” came a frail voice, and his heart would have become broken except he did not have time to fall apart.
“Into the circle!” Martel shouted. His own coercion had fallen away; nothing held him back from taking a step into the portal, and he pulled Eleanor with him. Atreus already inside, the three wizards crowded together onto the fabric, and in a flash, they disappeared.