Chapter 140 – Battle
Gardi takes a steadying breath, then slowly raises their gaze to the god. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Lorata regards him with a displeased but considering look. “Why did you betray your people?”
A ruffling wave runs through his fur. “Please, My Lord. I don’t view it that way. Jorria attacked the Fyrethians in your name—I was a part of that siege. But then I fell beneath the ice and became critically injured. Instead of leaving me to die, the Fyrethians healed me. They took me in. Showed me warmth and kindness, after everything we’d done. These people should not be our enemy.”
As I carefully watch this exchange, tensed for the slightest indication of aggression from Lorata, something buzzes at the back of my head. The Dungeon Core curiously notes a new spell circle has been connected to its network. I reach through its link and find it. My heartbeat quickens, but I try to keep my breathing level.
The telestone lights up, indicating Dizzi is attempting to contact me. I quietly slip it back into a pocket.
“Ollie,” I think, mentally reaching out. “I need you to do me a favor. Can you go speak with Dizzi at the Broken Tower?”
Ollie, who’s been trailing the back of our group, swivels a head in the tower’s direction. “MAYBE. I DON’T THINK I COULD LAND ON IT WITHOUT BREAKING IT.”
“I’ll use the Dungeon Core to reinforce it,” I assure him. “Please, Ollie, it’s very important that we speak with her. I need to know if the spell is ready.”
“OKAY.” Ollie backs away from the procession of gods. “I’LL TRY.” When he spreads his wings and takes to the air, many of the gods and champions turn and take note, carefully watching the now-airborne dragon. He banks away from them, however, and when he disappears behind the palace, heading for Broken Tower, the gods lose interest.
I open Psionic Sense, watching through Ollie’s eyes as he circles the tower. Accessing the Dungeon Core next, I have it take hold of all the stone in the walls, refusing to let it budge as Ollie flares his wings and drops around the tower. His tail whips around it tight, and his claws scrape down the stone, catching on a ledge. If the Dungeon Core hadn’t been tending to the tower, Ollie would have almost certainly tore through the wall. To keep himself from sliding down, he wraps his wings around the tower as well.
Dizzi appears at the top floor balcony. “Ollie?! Stars above, what are you doing?”
Before I can listen to more of their exchange, Lorata’s sharp tone brings me back to my own body. For one panicked moment I think she realized what I’m doing, but her attention is still on Gardi.
Lorata shakes her head at the felis. “I understand the choice you made, even if it is a disappointing one. It is easy to miss the forest for the trees, especially when their blossoms smell so sweet. You’re not wrong to care for the individuals here, but the danger they house poses a much more existential threat. If you have seen the things I have, you would not be so quick to defend these people.”
“And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?” I say, hoping to buy Ollie some time. “You expect others to act in accordance with information you withhold. You ask everyone to take your word on faith, but provide no evidence to substantiate your claims.”
Lorata glances sidelong at me. “That is how faith works. It should not require evidence—merely obedience.”
“I disagree,” I insist. “All of my faith is founded in evidence. When I place my faith in someone, it’s because I’ve witnessed what they’re capable of. I don’t know that they’ll be able to achieve what I expect of them in the moment, but I’m willing to take that chance. Because I’ve seen their compassion, or expertise, or strength, and I know they have the potential to rise to such heights again.”
Lorato sniffs at this, returning her attention to Gardi. “In that case, let’s put your faith to the test.” She lifts a hand.
A blast of wind and a flurry of feathers whip past me. Salvia lands in front of Gardi, their wings fully extended like a pair of shields. They grip their spear with both hands, whiteknuckled.
“You will not lay a hand on them,” Salvia says, their voice level.
Lorata scoffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Clearly the pantheon has been too idle over the years to allow such misplaced confidence to breed among mortals. Enough of this. If your plan was to foster empathy for your people, you’ve severely missed the mark.”
It would have been nice, I admit. Luckily for us, however, that was never the real goal.
Lorata freezes, then turns to me with a frown. I’m uncertain if she also just reached the same conclusion, but I’m not about to wait and find out.
“Ollie?” I prompt. “What is Dizzi saying? Is the spell ready?”
There’s a pause as I can sense him speaking with her.
“UM, SHE’S SAYING ABSOLUTELY NOT, WE NEED TO CAL—CALI—CALIBERATE? IT FIRST. AND THEN WE NEED A CONTROLLED EXPERIMENT. AND THEN—”
“Will it work?” I interrupt as Lorata narrows her eyes at me. “If I activate it, will it work?”
“You’re stalling,” Lorata realizes. “Who are you communicating with? What spell are you using?”
[Your magic has been identified.]
I take a step back, but it’s too late. Lorata whirls around. “Where did that dragon go!”
“UM, SHE SAYS IT PROBABLY WON’T BLOW UP?” Ollie replies.
That will have to be good enough. I open the flow of mana, allowing everything to pass through the Dungeon Core and spread into the spell network. The Core greedily laps it all up, ecstatic for its unrestrained access to the Isle’s magic. At the same time I shut off all non essential spells, increasing the mana flow rate. I direct the Core to pour everything it has into the new spell, and it giddily obliges.
The dome around the city dissolves into orange motes of light. A hush runs through the gods’ ranks. There’s a moment of uncertain silence, as if everyone is holding their breath, waiting to see what new spell takes its place.
And… there’s nothing. If a new spell has permeated the city, I didn’t feel a ghost of its touch, and Echo has reported nothing.
“Enough of this nonsense. Seize her,” Lorata snaps, breaking the spell. She flicks a hand in my direction. “Widengra, go retrieve her remnant.”
Shirasil slides in front of the orc god. “Now, hold on just a—”
Widengra roughly elbows Shirasil out of the way, who is thrown back into the ranks of the pantheon like a ragdoll. A few gods and champions stumble back as they unwillingly break his fall.
A dracid girl rushes to his side. “Lord Shirasil! Are you alright?”
Widengra stalks ahead, ignoring the scene unfolding behind him. That is, until Shirasil starts to cackle. The orc god frowns over his shoulder as Shirasil accepts help to stagger to his feet and wipes his wrist across his nose. He starts laughing even harder, an unhinged edge creeping into his tone.
“Lord Shirasil?” the dracid asks, her voice wavering with uncertainty. She watches him rub his fingers together. “Is… is that blood?”
“I certainly hope so, dear.” Shirasil spreads his hands, vivid red dripping from his nose and smeared across his palms. He spits some more blood through a laugh. “I’d be concerned if it were something else.”
I attempt to Check Shirasil’s health, and it’s only then I recognize the absence: There is no Echo in my head. No visuals when I reach for them, no words or stats superimposed over my vision. The System is down.
The gods also must be figuring it out, because right that moment, all hell breaks loose.
“The remnant!” Lorata shouts, and Widengra turns his back on the unfolding chaos to race up the steps.
“Mir—” I cry.
She’s already sprinting after him, taking the steps four at a time. “On it.”
“Be careful,” I mentally call after her. “He doesn’t have the System to rely on, but he’s still dangerous.” And the frightening part is I have no idea how dangerous. Without Stats, I don’t know if his health or mana is just as high as it was before, or if they were being artificially inflated by the system. Given Shirasil’s currently bleeding, I have to assume that they’re at least more vulnerable, but—
I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye. A blazing white spear stabs toward me, and I barely manage to jerk to the side, Mirzayael’s training the only thing that saves me. It still skids past my shoulder, searing a line of heat into my skin, and severed feathers fluttering into the air. I stumble back, clapping a hand to my arm. There’s blood beneath my fingers, but it feels superficial.
Lorata flicks the head of her spear off to the side. “I have had more than enough of you.”
As I retreat, I focus inward, reaching for my flames. It feels different from casting a spell with Echo—that’s automatic, structured. But plenty of people do magic without access to the System; I’ll also just have to do it the old fashioned way.
A ball of fire blooms into the air between my hands. I spread my arms, drawing more of my flames out.
“FYRE?” Ollie calls. “WHAT’S GOING ON? IT LOOKS LIKE PEOPLE ARE FIGHTING, BUT ECHO ISN’T SAYING YOU’RE IN DANGER. OH! SHE ISN’T SAYING ANYTHING! I CAN’T FIND HER! WHAT’S—”
“Ollie, stay where you are,” I quickly tell him, keeping my gaze locked on Lorata. “It’s not safe.”
Around us, Fyrethians are clashing with the pantheon. Some champions are protecting their stunned gods, while others are drawing their weapons in preparation for a fight. Some have already clashed with nearby soldiers—out of fury or panic, it’s impossible to tell.
“You’ve made a serious mistake,” Lorata hisses, advancing on me. “I don’t know how you’ve managed this, but if you think blocking the System will make up for the centuries we’ve spent honing our magic and skills, you’re about to be sorely mistaken. Your wooden toothpicks won’t even leave a scratch on enchanted armor and weapons.”
“You’re probably right,” I admit. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Alright Core,” I think. “Go for it.”
Using the catalogue of gear I’d previously identified on all of the champions and gods, the Dungeon Core swallows them in a single delighted gulp.
It doesn’t work on all of them. Some have been Attuned to their wielder, or are currently imbued with their magic. But for the artificed armor that weren’t yet activated, for the weapons that were impressively decorated yet mundane in nature, they vanish from their bearers in an instant. Chainmail disappears, shields dissolve into thin air, brandished weapons dissipate between clutched fingers. Lorata’s spear unfortunately remains, but over half the pantheon has been disarmed, and even more have now been, er, at least partially disrobed.
(Honestly it’s probably for the best that the Dungeon Core doesn’t particularly like eating cloth.)
Amidst the panic and confusion, an enraged cry tears through the battle. Mirzayael has her spear plunged into Widengra’s shoulder, himself now empty-handed. She wrenches her weapon free, and the god snarls in rage.
“Oh no,” Shirasil says flatly, raising his hands. “I surrender.”
Three others follow suit. Six more turn and flee for the wall. The rest that are still engaged in combat with Fyrethians take on a distinctly desperate edge.
Lorata stalks toward me, and I loose my fireball at her. She slashes through the flames, dispelling them. I activate my Jets, lighting concentrated flames beneath each limb, but my control feels far less stable than it had been with the System. I wobble, yet still manage to move outside Lorata’s range. Hopefully, her ability to float was also an artifact of the System.
Lorata’s feet leave the ground, and she flies after me.
That’s less than ideal.
Below, Widengra has gained a new weapon—a giant, red axe, formed from the blood that flows from his open wound. Mirzayael is his equal in size, and she has him in speed, but he is clearly the stronger of the two. Anytime he swings his weapon, Mirzayael nimbly dodges back, darting in to attack between blows. But every time she leaves another cut, more blood flows into his axe, growing larger by the second. All it would take is one well-placed hit to take Mirzayael out.
A beam of light cuts through the air, and I narrowly dodge by flipping the direction of my Jets. Lorata narrows her eyes, aiming her spear again as it glows white. I jerk to the side, missing the second shot, too. She’s not used to a harpy who uses rockets in place of wind arcana—she’s anticipating where I’ll be based on classical aerodynamics. I doubt it will take her more than another shot or two to catch on to my patterns, however. I need to think of something—quick.
My flames are unlikely to do much damage to Lorata: her magic is more honed, and she’s already displayed her capability to dispel my attacks. Her spear means I can’t get close, either—not without a weapon of my own, and I wouldn’t know how to use one, anyway. Which leaves—
Another beam of light fires straight at me, this time with far greater accuracy. I reach for the Dungeon Core, and before I can even articulate what I want, it’s read my mind.
A boulder appears in the air before me, and the beam crashes into it. I dodge to the side as Lorata’s line of sight is obscured. When the beam cuts out and the boulder begins to fall, the Core swallows it whole once more. Lorata finds me a moment later with a look of surprise.
Time to go on the offense.
The Core summons another boulder, this time right above Lorata’s head. It catches her off guard, but she rolls out of its path before it can carry her to the ground. She points her spear at me again, and the Core slams a wall of stone into her side.
We keep up the onslaught fast enough to prevent her from being able to complete a counterattack. Miraculously, however, she manages to dodge every one of our attacks at the last moment. I know she’s known as the Seer and supposedly has some sort of foresight abilities, but I’d hoped that was myth. How is she doing it? Without System cheats, too. I didn’t think there was a field of magic that would allow for foresight. Wouldn’t that imply predetermination? If that’s the case, then this fight is hopeless.
My heart sinks heavy into my chest. Is the outcome of this battle already decided? Have I failed everyone I care about for a second time? Of course I have. Who was I to think I could change? That I could do better? Be better? I’ll always let them down.
“Fyre—!” Mirzayael’s mental voice seems far away. Ollie is trying to speak with me, too, but I can’t muster the willpower to listen. Even flying is becoming difficult as heartbreak swells in my chest, threatening to crack me open. It’s all so hard. I should give up.
The thought sets off faint alarm bells in my subconscious. Why would I give up when my friends and family still need me?
Because I have before. I gave up on my last family. I didn’t fight for them. They pulled away, and I let them, because I knew deep down I wasn’t worthy of their love.
“Fyre,” Mirzayael’s voice comes again, a little louder than before. “Don’t listen!”
Listen to what?
Sorrow crashes into me, and my flames stutter. I distantly note that I’ve stopped attacking Lorata. What’s the point, anyway? I should give up.
“MOM!” Ollie’s voice cuts through the despair. “FIGHT BACK!”
Fight… Who should I be fighting? Oh, right—Lorata. She’s pointing a spear at me. A surge of panic that runs through me is just as quickly extinguished. I’m not supposed to fight her.
But Ollie’s words stay with me. Fight. I can’t let him down. He needs me. And if I can’t fight against Lorata, then I can fight for Ollie.
A fog briefly clears from my mind. There’s a heavy weight pressing down on me. Suffocating my thoughts. Lorata—it’s her influence. Mind magic.
I try to focus on Ollie’s presence. On Mirzayael. It’s hard. I want to give up. But I can’t—I can’t let my family go a second time. I won’t.
I reach for them, and when I make contact, I pull them close. They wrap around me as well in a tight mental embrace, and together the weight of Lorata’s mind feels much more manageable.
“MOM,” Ollie says, his voice now clear. “DON’T GIVE UP.”
“I won’t,” I choke out, squeezing him close. “I’ll never stop fighting for you.”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” Mirzayael says, her presence surrounding me in fortifying warmth.
“Never,” I agree. Leaning on them for strength, I turn my attention toward the invading influence. Now that I know what it is, its attempts to tear me down feel pathetically hollow. She burrowed into my memories, seized upon my fears. But she made the mistake of assuming the person I was yesterday is the person I am today. I seize the foreign magic, and I rip it in half.
Lorata flinches away with a hiss, and I blink, abruptly back in the present. How long did that last? An hour? A second? The battle is still waging around us, on the ground and in the air. The Dungeon Core’s presence hovers nearby, watching me with confusion and concern, aimless without my direction. I reach for another rock, and Lorata retreats.
I pause. She doesn’t have foresight—it’s more mind magic. She’s listening to my commands to the Dungeon Core and using that to dodge our attacks. I mentally envision a wall around my mind, a Fortress, reinforced with a dome, and I feel another hook of Lorata’s influence torn away.
“Ollie,” I think.
“I’M COMING!”
Lorata sneers. “I see you’re not totally inept with psionic magic. But I have centuries of experience on you. You may have shut me out, but it will only take a matter of seconds to tear down such primitive defenses.”
I tip my head at her. “More than five, do you think?”
She frowns, pointing her spear at me once more. “What are you—”
Ollie blurs between us like a fighter jet. The wind of his wake throws me through the sky, and my vision is sent spinning even as I right myself and scramble to find Lorata.
“I DID IT!” Ollie cries. “I GOT HER SPEAR! OH,” he adds. “OOPS.”
Lorata screams. It’s an ear-piercing cry that sends a hush through the entire battleground. Lorata staggers to the ground, clutching the stump of her arm.
Ollie lands nearby, spitting out Lorata’s spear—along with her hand. “I MADE SURE NOT TO ACCIDENTALLY EAT IT THIS TIME,” he says.
I also land, the pantheon in a state of shock as I walk over to the wailing, bleeding god.
“It’s time for you to leave my city,” I say, looking down at her.
“How dare you,” she seethes, tears streaming down her face. She staggers to her feet, teeth clenched in fury, hand still clamped around her bleeding arm, her white robes now stained red. “That beast,” she spits at Ollie. “I’ll kill him. I’ll—”
Anger flashes through me, and Lorata is back on the ground before I’ve even registered what I’ve done. My fist throbs like it struck a brick wall, but I barely even notice as whitehot anger courses through me.
“If you ever threaten my son again,” I say, voice low, “I will hunt you down and kill you myself.”
Lorata raises a shaking, bloody hand to her jaw, where the skin is beginning to turn red.
“Actually,” Mirzayael says, stepping up beside me, “I think I’d rather kill you now.”
A blast of air accompanies a flash of light, and then abruptly, a tan arachnoid is before us, Lorata cradled in her arms. Zeyaelid narrows her eyes at the two of us, but instead of speaking, another burst of light and wind accompanies the champion’s abrupt retreat. And then they’re all fleeing—gods and champions alike—flying or stumbling for the city’s wall. In all the confusion, I realize Shirasil has already vanished. Widengra, covered in dozens of wounds, is helped to his feet by two champions. He growls and shakes them off, briefly pausing as he catches sight of Mirzayael and myself. Then, like a wolf leaving to lick its wounds, he hunches his shoulders and turns away with the rest of them.
I’m left panting and sore, distantly aware that Mirzayael is nursing injuries of her own, as I watch the pantheon flee our city. It feels surreal. We won. We won.
In the ensuing stunned quiet, Mirzayael abruptly laughs. “Did you really just punch a god?”
“Oh.” I look down at my hand, still clenched into a fist, and force myself to uncurl my fingers. “I suppose I did.”
“How does it feel?”
My knuckles throb. “It kind of hurts.”
Mirzayael’s laughs are soon drowned by a wave of cheers that flood the city.