feet. And there was something strange about the air. It felt charged, oppressive, and far too warm given the chill atmosphere.
There was a movement to their rear. Looking back, they could make out one of the Sluagh at the foot of the stairs, and several more behind. The guardsman lost his nerve. He dropped the snuffed lantern and ran, past the door bleeding light and along the passageway. His dash lasted less than twenty paces. A Sluagh’s feelers whipped down from the ceiling, snared him and hoisted him up. Howling, legs kicking, he disappeared into shadow.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Jennesta hurried to the door, General Mersadion in tow. It was unlocked, but heavy and hard to move. She let him take the brunt of shifting it. On the other side was another, much shorter corridor, leading to an archway. The space beyond was bathed in beating light.
She got him to secure the door, then said, “Looks like it’s just you and me, General.”
Pointing at the source of the light he asked, “What is it, my lady?”
“Think of it as a… gateway. It’s very old, and it was what inspired my father to create the artefacts that rightly belong to me.”
He nodded, as though he understood.
“Activating the portal has released the energy that’s destroying this palace,” she added offhandedly.
Mersadion looked no more comfortable for the explanation.
They approached the arch. It led to a set of wide steps that swept down to a capacious chamber that housed five massive, rudely worked standing stones, arranged in a semicircle. At its centre was a low granite dais, studded with what appeared to be gems. Issuing from the dais’ surface was something wondrous.
It was as though a waterfall had been upended. But it wasn’t a liquid cascade. It was light. Countless millions of tiny multicoloured pinpoints, spiralling, twisting, surging upwards in a never ending, constantly replenished flow. The dazzling vortex was the source of the throbbing beat, and a sulphurous odour hung in the air.
There were a number of beings present. Standing just beyond the arch, Jennesta scanned them. Her father, Tentarr Arngrim, known to the covert world of sorcery as Serapheim, was at the forefront. Jennesta’s sister, Sanara, the most human in appearance of Arngrim’s brood, was by his side. The rest were Wolverines, the wretched orc warband who had subjected Jennesta to the bitterest of betrayals. All were transfixed by the glittering spectacle.
Jennesta saw the female orc, Coilla, standing close to the dais and staring at the torrent. Coilla mouthed, “It’s beautiful.”
Standing next to her the dwarf, Jup, nodded and said, “Awesome.”
“And mine!” Jennesta declared loudly as she lost patience and strode down the stairs, Mersadion in her wake.
All heads turned to them. For a split second Jennesta’s steely poise faltered. But she was confident in the superiority of her magic over anything here, spell or weapon.
“You’re too late,” Serapheim told her. His tone was cooler than Jennesta cared for.
“Nice to see you too, Father dear,” she returned acerbically. “I’ve a contingent of Royal Guards at my heels,” she lied. “Surrender or die, it’s all the same to me.”
“I can’t see you passing on the opportunity to slay those you think have wronged you,” Sanara said.
“You know me so well, sister.” She thought how prissy Sanara was. “And how pleasant to see you in the flesh again. I look forward to despoiling it.”
The Wolverines’ leader spoke. “If you think we’re giving up without a fight, you’re wrong.” He indicated his troop with the sweep of a sturdy hand. “We’ve nothing to lose.”
“Ah, Captain Stryke.” She cast a derisive eye over his warband. “And the Wolverines. I’ve relished the thought of meeting you again in particular.” Her voice hardened with the tenor of authority. “Now throw down your weapons.”
There was a flurry of movement. Someone came out of the host, sword drawn. Jennesta recognised him as the band’s healer, an aged fool of an orc called Alfray.
Instantly, Mersadion was there, blocking the attacker’s path. The general’s blade flashed. Alfray took a blow. He swayed, his eyes rolled to white, and he fell.
There was a moment of stasis, an immobility of all present as they took a collective intake of breath.
Then Stryke, Coilla, Jup and the hulking brute Haskeer fell upon the general and hacked him to pieces. The rest of the band would have joined them if it hadn’t been over so quickly.
Jennesta saw no reason to spend any of her magic intervening. But she quickly acted when the vengeful orcs turned to her. An apple-sized ball of fire manifested on the palm of her outstretched hand. Its intensity immediately grew, the brilliance hurtful to the eyes of everyone looking on.
Serapheim cried, “No!” at the backs of the advancing Wolverines.
Jennesta hurled the fireball at them. They scattered and it missed, passing close enough to several that they felt its scorching heat. The fiery globe struck the far wall and exploded, the sound of its report filling the chamber. Chunks of masonry came down with a further resounding crash. She had already begun forming another fireball when Serapheim and Sanara stepped in.
Jennesta wrapped herself in a cloak of enchantment, a conjured field of protective vigour, near transparent save for the slightest tinge of shimmering green. Her father and sibling did the same, and a duel of sorcery commenced.
Blistering spheres and searing bolts were exchanged, needles of energy and sheets of power were flung. Some volleys the bubble-like defensive shields absorbed; others were deflected, causing the hellish munitions to ricochet. Multicoloured streaks sliced the air. There were intense detonations throughout the chamber, cleaving wood and stone.
All the orcs could do was take shelter. Except for a small group, oblivious to the mayhem, who clustered around their fallen comrade.
Under the onslaught, and the building power of the vortex, the palace was beginning to destruct. The rumblings grew louder. Fissures rippled across the flagstone floor, cracks appeared in the walls.
The combined might of Serapheim and Sanara was proving too strong for Jennesta. Her forehead was sheened with perspiration, her breath was laboured. She fought to maintain concentration. Her stamina, and her confidence, were waning.
Sensing that she was weakening, her father and her sister increased the ferocity of their assault. Her protective shield started to waver. When its emerald tint slowly changed to a pinkish crimson Serapheim and Sanara knew the sign. They upped their barrage.
Jennesta lost her hold. The shield silently burst into a golden nimbus that dissolved to nothing. She staggered slightly, then steadied herself with an effort of will. She let out an exhausted breath.
Serapheim darted forward and grabbed her wrist. She was in too much of a daze to stop him. He began dragging her across the chamber.
The Wolverines wanted to kill her. They came forward with blades in their hands.
“No!” Serapheim bellowed. “She’s my daughter! I’ve a responsibility for all she’s done! I’ll deal with this myself!”
Reluctantly, they obeyed.
Serapheim was pulling Jennesta towards the dais and the sparkling portal. When they were almost there she came to herself, and realised what he intended doing. She showed no fear.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she sneered.
“Once, perhaps,” he told her, “before the full horror of your wickedness was brought home to me. Not now.” Holding her in an iron grip, he thrust her hand towards the portal’s cascading brilliance, the tips of her fingers almost in the flow. “I brought you into this world. Now I’m taking you out of it. You should appreciate the symmetry of the act.”
“You’re a fool,” she hissed, “you always were. And a coward. I’ve an army here. If anything happens to me you’ll die a death beyond your wildest imagination.” She flicked her gaze to her sister. “You both will.”
“I don’t care,” he told her.
Sanara backed him.
It seemed to Jennesta that they might have had tears in their eyes. She thought them weaklings for it.
Serapheim said something about evil and some prices being worth paying. He pushed her hand nearer to the sparkling flux.
