Might I suggest aiming for the head, Ilargo chimed in, his voice strained as he unfurled his wings to banish the fiends crawling all over him. This was not to be our fight, he reminded his companion.
Gideon was too ensnared by his duel to reply or even contemplate another fight. He was forced to step on a dead dwarf and use the height to bring a strong two-handed blow down on Vilyra. She blocked it, as he had expected her to, and then came at him with a counter strike he had predicted after scrutinising her style. That counter strike was delivered across his waist after she had ducked to one knee, but Gideon had already tucked his knees up to his chest and leapt over himself and the sweeping blade. Before he landed beside her, Mournblade was lashing out to take her arm.
The limb fell to the ground, added to a field of other limbs and bodies. It didn’t seem to bother Vilyra, her sword still grasped in her remaining hand.
The head, Gideon! Ilargo reminded.
Like a banshee, she flung herself at the old master. He shifted his shoulders one way then the next, avoiding every stroke of her blade by an inch. Using her aggressive advance to his advantage, Gideon shifted his whole body to the side, pivoting on his heel, and brought Mournblade around in a cutting arc. He felt the brief resistance as the edge of the steel passed through her neck, though the pelting rain prevented him from hearing her head hit the ground.
At last, every Dragon Rider was returned to their rest.
“Good to see ye gettin’ stuck in, lad!” The familiar voice turned Gideon to King Doran, who was yanking his axe out of a Reaver’s skull. “Now, get back up there an’ end this madness!”
57
A Clash of Fates
A crack of lightning flashed through the narrow slits in the dark passage, bringing momentary life to the faces of a dozen Darklings. They had been waiting in silence, motionless in the shadows, while their prey moved ever closer. But Inara had seen them now and they knew it. As one, they burst forward, their nightmarish shrieks bouncing off the cold stone.
Inspired by the storm outside, Inara extended her hand towards the creatures and let loose a staccato of lightning bolts. The searing energy cut through them as if they were old parchment. For those that escaped the barrage, there was only fire. The jet of flames erupted from between her hands and engulfed the passage from wall to wall.
Nothing moved after that.
Inara looked down at the burning bodies, the flames reflected in her eyes. They were people once. Men and women who had likely committed petty crimes and been sent to The Bastion instead of the cells, there to be transformed into the tools of a wicked necromancer.
The ringing of duelling swords pulled Inara from her reverie and turned her to the northern passage, a hall that led deeper into the fortress. Firefly was freed of its scabbard, its steel flashing in the firelight, but Inara had to lean against the nearest wall before she could investigate.
Everything hurt. Between their physical battle and intense exchange of magic in the sky, Inara was aching from her bones through to the cuts and bruises that marred her skin. She knew there would be more fighting and more spells required before the end, for everything inside The Bastion was hostile.
Inara gritted her teeth and took a steadying breath. Nothing was more hostile than her. She poured that belief into her muscles and forced herself to push away from the wall and find her brother. One stroke of Firefly could end it all.
Taking to the northern passage, Inara spared a moment’s thought for her companion. Even now, she could feel Athis locked in battle with Malliath, their claws and fangs ripping each other to pieces. She wanted to offer him encouragement, to bolster his strength, but the red dragon’s mind was in a primal place.
Following the sound of ringing swords, Inara pushed through her injuries and quickened her pace. She soon arrived at an archway that opened up onto the gallery of a vast chamber that possessed two more levels above and one below. Thick chains hung from the ceiling and rusted manacles lay strewn across the ground floor, easily seen without any railing around the gallery. To the left of the chamber was a pair of enormous rattling doors that were continually blasted by the ferocious winds outside.
All manner of great beasts could have inhabited the chamber. And, by the look of the Giant and Troll bones littering the ground floor, Inara guessed that Atilan had once experimented on a number of them in the vile chamber. Having taken it all in with barely more than a glance, the half-elf was guided by sound to the battle below.
Galanör was leaping from atop the Giant’s skull, Stormweaver gripped over his head in both hands. He tore through the Reaver from shoulder to groin, which was not a killing blow, but enough to knock it back into Aenwyn’s sweeping scimitar. That was a killing blow. The head flew from its body and crashed amongst a pile of smaller bones.
Aenwyn didn’t stop there. The elf launched her blade as if it were a spear and impaled an incoming Reaver in the head. Before it had dropped to the floor, she was already nocking an arrow in her bow and firing at the next fiend. Galanör didn’t hesitate to retrieve Aenwyn’s scimitar and wield it alongside Stormweaver. A flurry of steel was brought to bear on the remaining knights from Erador’s ancient past.
Inara decided to lend Firefly to the assault on the last of them and stepped off the edge of the first storey. She would have landed with her usual elven grace, but recent injuries forced her
