PART ONE - Chapter 1

A clash of the elements takes place in the Hillands, and an unbelievable act draws the line between heroes and villains, survived and lost, blurred as it may be for some.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

            The storm had come a long way. Now it lingered over the camp, moistening the ground with ease. Rain assailed tents and water rolled off onto the muddy land. Rophelius Immellion had brought his adept army a daylight’s march into the Hillands before stopping to let everyone rest and allow his scouts to once again evaluate the enemy’s location and movement. It had been almost a week since a scout who had fallen far off his path found the mage army skulking through the western hills. Now Adept Immellion was closing in on the threat that dared leave the desolate boundaries of its homeland and tread too close to Lightwater.

The captain of the united realm had spent his hours not tucked away in his tent, but out amongst his men and women and element. Water gave life to all, human and otherwise, and helped the world burgeon into one of relative peace and beauty. But with water, an adept could also take life. Rophelius excelled in all of his studies and training. He kept pace with his peers while going through the rigors of Adeptation, but it was clear to anyone who knew the way of the elementals that he was destined for greatness. Still, with his superiority known to him and all the adepts in his army, he carried himself as an equal. Water could be warm or cool, frozen or bubbling, trickling or teeming, emptying or filling. Water could be everything and nothing, but at its essence it was all the same. That was a lesson Rophelius reminded himself of constantly.

Under the encompassing gray clouds, covering the fading evening sun, he sat by a fire near the center of the camp. He held a pork shank in one hand and, in his other, a waterstone. The turquoise was glowing more often than not. His concentration was so great that he could focus more on the inviting heat of the fire and the spiced flavor of the meat than keeping his water shield strong. They were dry, the three of them, under a shield that both consisted of and warded off their element. Harmon Fachon and Peatross Gergens held their pulsing waterstones, too, though the light from them wasn’t quite as bright, the intermittence a bit more spaced. The three water adepts ate together, looking into the fire and watching the shadows dance on one another’s faces while outside rain pummeled the suspended bubble.

“Whoever plucked this storm from Shadowsea must be a skilled conjurer,” Peatross said.

“Yes,” Harmon nodded. “Darkstrand wasn’t quite as strong when you were at the bay.”

Peatross let out a chuckle at the jab. “I’m a much better fighter than I am a cook. I’d rather kill a mage with water than pack it into the clouds.”

“You might not see any fighting,” Rophelius commented. “Unless more forces have joined the enemy, we outnumber them almost three to one. The riders could finish the job before we even start our Forward.”

“They better not. I’ve been itching for a fight. Been too long.”

Harmon shook his head slowly. “I’ll never understand why it’s so appealing to you.”

“Because the westerners are degenerates. They’re regressive. And now they dare step into Lightwater. Fools, the lot of the mages.”

“Lightwater is only ours from the eastern hills and the southern marshes to the forest,” Harmon reminded him. “We still aren’t certain if our borders are their final destination.”

“They’ve come close enough. And that’s reason enough.”

Rophelius remained quiet as the two high water adepts continued. It shouldn’t have been just the three of them, or at least there should have been a bolt of light amongst them. While other adepts stayed away because of a misperceived hierarchy, Corson Xull chose to keep his distance for a different reason. The highest light adept in Lightwater’s ranks, besides Lord Venyo, Corson completed his Adeptation at the same time as Rophelius. And while Corson did the majority of his training at Lightning Bay, the two adepts became fiercely close surprisingly fast when the two elements met to start understanding the necessity of fluidity in battle. Their elements worked well together naturally. That was how the alliance came so easily so long ago. Corson and Rophelius, however, fought together in a way that made all others past or present, ally or enemy, either envious or dead. The light adept was tucked away in his tent. With him was Rophelius’ cousin. And that was where they would stay.

“Captain Immellion!” an adept shouted from outside their bubble.

Rophelius yanked himself away from thoughts of his friend and his family. He stood up from the log on which he sat. The upper half of him escaped the water shield and was soon soaked with heavy rain. His legs remained try, his bottom growing warm as it faced the fire around which Peatross and Harmon still stood. A lightguard took a few more strides until she was standing before her captain.

“The scouts have returned,” the young woman delivered.

“With what news?”

“The enemy is advancing,” she said. “They’re moving in our direction.”

            They had blown out the candles more than an hour ago so they could tussle in the darkness. Snuggling had become kissing, which turned into a playful wrestling match, which evolved into lovemaking that rode the fence between tender and animalistic, tipping back and forth from side to side. Omily Constance, as much as she enjoyed exploring her baser instincts, early and often reminded Corson to pull out each time she thought he might reach his climax. The last thing she wanted planted inside her was a child, at least at this point.

            “It quite ruins the moment when you insist on stopping me,” the light adept told his lover as he held her in his arms.

            Some of Omily’s damp hair was matted to her forehead as she came down from her euphoria. She sighed. “We can’t afford a child. We’re so close now. Trust me.”

            “Quento will never concede,” Corson said. “As long as you’re of the water and I the light, it will be forbidden.”

            “My father will come around,” she reassured, “once he sees just how well you treat me.”

            Corson snorted. “Have I not done so for long enough? The Waterlord is only afraid of losing his daughter.”

            “I’m all he has left, Cor.”

            “And with everything else he’s lost, reason’s gone as well.”

            Omily lifted her head off Corson’s chest. For a moment she wanted to argue her point further, defend her father and help Corson see another point of view. But then she looked into his eyes, and saw not anger, but disappointment. He wanted to badly to solidify the love that she knew he carried for her. Lightwater prevented that, however, or at least its law did. It was an unspoken love, one that had budded since they both returned to The Tear after duty took them elsewhere. Omily tried her hardest to remain as nonchalant as possible. She wanted the façade to remain strong, to convince others that it was casual, that water and light would never wed, would never procreate, would never love. A rumble of thunder sounded overhead. Omily wanted to stay silent no more.

            “I love you,” she said.

            “I love you, too,” Corson responded.

            The swiftness with which he answered threw her off guard, but only for an instant. “I just needed you to know… before this battle.”

            “I’ve known for some time,” he grinned in the shadows. “And I’ve understood your reluctance, painfully.”

            She nodded, slowly, loving him even more for his understanding, his surprising tenderness in matters of the heart. “Are you scared, Cor?”

            “I’ll never be scared to tell the world I love you. I’ll climb to your father’s throne and tell him when we return if you permit me.”

            “I mean of the battle.”

            “No,” he shook his head confidently.

            “Why are they in the Hillands?”

            “Because they’re desperate,” he answered plainly. “They’ve been desperate for generations, stuck within the chasm or with nothing but grass to keep them company.”

            “Desperate for what?”

            “Attention. As a child would throw a tantrum, thought its weakness is still clear.”

            Omily stewed in silence for another minute before she laid her head back down on Corson’s chest. It was firm but giving, the heartbeat within steady and strong. She closed her eyes with a flutter and tried to let sleep take her as the rain pattered hard against the canvas above them. Thunder boomed again and again, and occasionally bolts of light illuminated the area enough that beams snuck through the cracks between the weak walls of their tent.

            “Corson!” Rophelius boomed between the rumblings of the heavens. “Omily!”

            They both sat up. Rophelius was aware of their togetherness, though he tended to side more with his uncle in the matter. Even though there was no secret to be kept, they were both soon standing and dressed, albeit haphazardly.

            “What is it?” Corson shouted back.

            The captain took that as permission to enter. He stepped into the slit that made the tent’s opening and found his best friend and his cousin on either side of an unrolled feather mattress. “The enemy is advancing, moving closer to us every minute. They’re within two hours’ march.”

            “And so what is the plan?”

            “We meet them as lightning would the sea, as water would a parched mouth,” Rophelius grinned. “Quickly, and without restraint.”

Drums in the distance across the valley boomed with harrowing rhythm. Somewhere in the black sky above, the definitive drum stroke fell. Thunder shook the very ground. As the drums drew closer, lightning flashed over the region. It was bright enough to make some adepts squint. The rain had consistently fallen heavily and steadily throughout the day and night, but now turned into sheets of water that seemed to soak through even the thickest plate armor.

            Rophelius held the handle of his scimitar daintily with three fingertips. He let it dangle carelessly and took pleasure in the cold water washing over his exposed face. The rain trickled in at the neck of his armor and further dampened the wet clothes he still wore underneath. He lifted his feet up and down a few times and felt the squishiness beneath him.

            “It’s going to be another messy one, Cor,” he said.

            “We always have to make it messy one way or the other, captain.”

            “The more rain that falls, the stronger we are.”

            Corson’s wooden longshield was already starting to sink into the forming mud. His left arm rested on top of it, level with his chest. He tapped his amulet with his middle finger. It hung over his heart, and he felt like he could feel the beating, even through his dense leather armor. A mixture of excitement and nerves ran through him. Wet was an understatement for Corson. He was soaked. Rophelius trusted his number two enough to wear plate around him despite the conduciveness of the material, but Corson still had his doubts about even his own skills. Near a lifetime together, endless hours of training, and handfuls of battles ranging from skirmishes to battles was not enough to convince Corson that you could ever really trust lightning.

            “It looks like we’re ready,” Rophelius said over the rain. His confidence was palpable. The turquoise stone set into the chest of his armor was as bright as it had ever been. Perhaps it was the darkness. Perhaps it was an indication of the battle ahead, anticipation of the thrill.

            “Harmon!” Corson yelled. He leaned forward and looked to the left, halfway down their line. His amulet dangled out, swinging back and forth. The citrine jewel shone a yellow bright enough to pull the enemy’s attention directly to him. It was a prospect that excited him.

“Omily!” Rophelius shouted, looking to his right.

She raised her hand, grasping tightly to her turquoise, and its blue-white essence faded in and out, in and out, like a lighthouse signaling a ship to dock. Harmon had his waterstone raised high on the other end. His turquoise, set at the top of his helm, was the next brightest of any in the line. Rophelius looked back to his closest friend, his most trusted ally, and when their eyes met, they both nodded and screamed, “CHARGE!”

Both men stood still, as did most everyone in their sight. The cluster of steeds behind Omily looked to break out faster as adepts charged forward into the middle of the field. Harmon’s lot was not far behind. Corson spotted a man charging faster than the rest of the herd, surprising considering the head of the war hammer he carried was wider than the man’s chest. These adepts were armored mostly with leather, if for no reason other than it would allow them to move faster once dismounted. Still some opted to wear armor that offered them a better chance of surviving. Their outlook either way was meager. The enemy had released their fire cavalry. Fire would burn through leather and cook steel, and so adepts could die at its hand no matter what they wore. Surely swords would cross in the field and blood would be shed, but the race to the enemy lines promised much more glory. Rophelius’ cavalry was almost always made up of youths, younger adepts whose skills were still strongest at arms rather than the elements.

Every one of them saw flames in the distance, small ones that looked as harmless as a piece of burning straw. Yet upon seeing these flames, working entirely on instinct, each water adept under Rophelius’ charge raised his or her waterstone. They all faded in and out in unison. The rain slowed, almost to a trickle. Corson looked up, as amazed as he was the first time he watched a waterwall form. He looked all around, and a wall of water that stayed in place like a giant bubble surrounded their entire formation. But the water within the wall moved, swirling and crashing and splashing. Parts looked like the rush of a river strong enough to flip a small boat. Corson was mesmerized only until he saw the first flame through the water. Arrows wouldn’t reach them from the distance between the lines, but the flameshots riding on the gusts of wind mages made the trip easily. He watched as a handful of shots hit the waterwall and faded out, but not before giving the clear barrier a bright orange-red pop that reminded Corson of improbable underwater firecrackers.

“Cor!” Rophelius yelled. “Make sure your light adepts are centered!”

Corson was a moment away from turning around when his captain shouted again.

“Riders approaching! Charges, NOW!” The enemy reached them faster than expected.

Corson’s right hand, in its citrine-encrusted gauntlet, reached behind him and pulled a lightning rod out of the quiver hanging on his back. The hand went high into the air, and Corson closed his eyes only until he felt the electricity hit the tip of the rod. He opened his eyes narrowly and scanned for only a few seconds until he saw a blur of a man through the waterwall only a dozen feet ahead of him. The man had a longsword that cut through the water before he did. In that one split second, Corson released his charge, his rod aimed square at the blur’s chest. As the man hit the charged water, he shook violently and dropped his sword into the mud before falling to the ground himself.

“Peatross!” Rophelius shouted from just behind Corson.

“Warriors, forward!” Peatross yelled from even further back in the lot. The adepts directly behind and soon running passed him were skilled both with their arms and their element.

At first only arrows whizzed forward, shot from small bows easy to handle in the chaos. They took down a handful of charging mages, but most of the archers missed their target. Through darkness, a waterwall, and endless flashes of lightning, finding true aim was almost impossible. A line of warriors passed the leaders on either side once the arrows ceased. 

Rophelius and Corson and the rest of the most experienced adepts knew many of these men and women would be lost after leaving the confines of the waterwall. Both hand-to-hand combat and enemy long-range elemental attacks threatened them. Many of the mages across the field were wise enough to know that this stage of the battle was better spent destroying defenders of the wall, not trying to penetrate it. In a few shorts minutes the mages and adepts would begin to converge. They would eliminate most of the riders on both sides, and every survivor’s worst enemy would become fatigue. Corson turned to glance at his captain. Rophelius slipped his waterstone back into its pouch and started addressing his fellow leaders.

“I want as many fully charged rods as possible on each shield. When the waterwall comes down, be ready for the Forward.”

Corson just nodded in agreement. He passed him and yelled, “Light adepts, TO ME!”

“Omily, Harmon!” Rophelius shouted. “Two each!”

Within thirty seconds Rophelius had three adepts on either side of him. He studied the field and the waterwall. Flameshots were only reaching the center of their barrier now, and extinguishing against the waterwall without a hitch. The adept warriors looked to have moved far beyond the wall, too, perhaps even joining the riders in their own push forward. The enemy seemed to have been forced into a circle, a truly defensive and vulnerable position.

“The three of you, left,” he said, pointing to Omily and her pair. “The rest of you, right. Collect the back wall, the sides, the roof. Leave the center. Strengthen the warriors, push the enemy to the center, in front of where I stand inside the waterwall. We drown them out, and then the Forward. May you drink in the glory of life and death.”

“Of life and death!” they all six said in unison. The two threesomes broke away from Rophelius in opposite directions. Waiting was all he could do then. He felt no need to turn around and check on Corson, or even Peatross. He trusted them with his life. Rophelius looked up, and saw the ceiling of the water barrier begin to diminish. He quickly charged another skilled water adept to patrol for renegade flameshots and extinguish them with ease. They studied the sky together before the woman headed off on her own, further back for a better vantage point.

Rophelius looked down again, and through the waterwall burst a man dressed entirely in black leather armor. Half of his face was scarred, burnt, it looked, and the smile on his face was menacing, a fire in itself. His wild fury brought him forward in a rush. Rophelius scarce had the time to raise his scimitar and glance the first swing of his double sawtooth swords off to the side. The second sword in the other hand came around at a wider angle, a bit slower but still with a quickness that surprised Rophelius. He blocked it again. This man had charged across an entire battlefield, clearly having to stop and fight along the way. He had fresh cuts through his leather, blood already starting to soak into it. And now, having made it through the water wall, he still had the skill and dexterity to match Rophelius. The strikes kept coming, the speed somehow increasing. Rophelius had no choice but to move back and just try to focus on blocking the blows. His back foot found an extra slick patch of mud, and he stumbled just enough for the mage to notice. The swords went down to his side and he lifted a large black booted into the air, raising it high and sending it squarely into Rophelius’ chest, just under his turquoise. Rophelius fell hard onto the ground, his large frame sending a splattering of mud in all directions.

The attacker had both swords above him in the blink of an eye. They were coming down just when a rider shouldered into the man from behind, looking to snap his spine in two and take him forward with a tackle, over Rophelius and face-first into the mud. The captain’s savior mounted his enemy and, with a dagger pulled from his boot, stabbed him squarely in the back of the neck. It didn’t take long for the pool of blood to mix with the slosh underneath the men. The mage gasped and choked on water and mud and blood alike, until he drew his last breath as Rophelius and his ally rose to their feet together.

“Your name?” Rophelius asked, calmer than one should be after nearly dying.

“Darwen, m’lord.” He had a strange mountainous accent. He was breathing heavily. His elemental training was not evident, but his heart was. “Rider. Lost my horse and turned back and trailed down some of the enemy who broke through our line towards the waterwall. But the enemy is falling back. They’ve clustered.”

Rophelius nodded, satisfied. “Stay by my side, Darwen, and I’ll see you’re never sent riding again.”

“Ro!” Corson shouted from behind. “Forward ready!”

Rophelius grinned. “Behind me, Darwen.”

The rider obliged. He leaned down to sheathe his bloody dagger in its ankle holster. He had another one on the other foot, as well as a set of short, curved swords on either hip. Across his back was a longsword, straight and thick, crudely made and weathered, but still of great use when the right man wielded it. His hair was long and straggly, well passed his shoulders, and long bunches of it fell to cover most of his face. But between the strands Rophelius saw a man full of hatred and purpose. It was a great and awful combination. Rophelius was happy to have him at his side.

He took a few long strides ahead, just to the edge of the waterwall. He could see that Omily’s threesome was still intact. One of Harmon’s adepts was not there, likely fallen in the drive towards the center. The remaining five were fighting hand-to-hand with small pockets of enemy riders and warriors. Adept scimitars flowed seamlessly through the air as they pulled rushes of water from the wall with their glowing stones to knock their enemy off balance and strike them down. Rophelius turned and spotted Corson not ten feet behind him. He nodded.

“Water, flank! Light, stay centered!” Corson shouted to those still behind the wall. Blue filed behind Rophelius in a triangle formation. In the center, citrine lightjewels glowing on amulets and gauntlets alike, was a bulk of yellow adepts.

“Omily, Harmon! In!” Rophelius shouted in his most booming voice. The command reached them, and they pulled their fellow adepts through the wall with great ease.

Omily and Harmon took either side of their leader. They raised their waterstones in unison, and the rest did the same. Rophelius’ turquoise glowed brighter and brighter, until it was nearly white, until it looked like it would explode. Just as the enemies previously battling outside the wall were about to crash through it, Rophelius let his stone drop towards the ground.

“TORRENTIUM!” he hollered, and in one swift movement brought his scimitar across his front, catching the stone exactly in the center. It shattered, and the light disappeared immediately. A huge bolt of lightning shot down through the center of the waterwall at the same time. The stone was broken, the lightning struck, and the wall crashed down. The weight of the water forced the mages pushing through it to the ground, killing some of them while others writhed with electrical charges coursing through them.

“FORWARD!” Rophelius and Corson yelled in unison, and they began marching, completely in sync but with a great speed that made it easy to extinguish the lives of the mages under the water. It had become a wave, flipping over into itself again and again and taking down most of the foes it met. A great hulk of a man with an ax to match had withstood the water and sloshed through it toward the advancing line.

Omily, smaller and quicker than most all of the other adepts, came within reach of the ax. She arched her spine backwards and ducked under the swing. Her stone came up next, and the great geyser of water that shot up just inches in front of the hulk hit him directly at the chin, forcing his head backwards and spraying his face, blinding him for only the two seconds Omily needed to swing her scimitar across the shoulders of the man, sweeping his head off in a single strike. The mage fell to their feet, and they stepped over his corpse and left him on the wet land behind the advance.

This happened down the line in either direction. Very few enemy warriors were able to withstand the water torrent. Those that did met an arguably worse end. They came closer and closer to the cluster of fire and wind mages. With their few remaining warriors fighting on the outside, the mages had tightened even further. The flames they brewed between their hands looked like a wall in itself, and every few seconds a fire mage would let a fireball burst forward with the force of a mighty wind behind it. The enemy hit most of its targets, and Rophelius watched as a handful of his riders and warriors were set ablaze. A few skilled adepts were able to send enough of their element from the torrent to douse and save the victim. But more often they were left to burn to death. The screams were agonizing, audible even over the torrent and the fireballs and the wind and the charges. Every skilled adept was able to block it out.

Corson spotted the charging men first. A small pocket of the mages’ cluster had opened, and from it spilled about two dozen small men with incredible speed and light armor. “Light adepts, the runners!” he shouted to the men around his center pocket. Just as he finished his command, he pulled a charged lightning rod from one of the nearly thirty pockets fastened to the back of his shield, spread out above, below and on either side of the handle. He pointed his gauntlet directly at one of the runners, and as his amulet let out a flash of yellow, so too did his rod release a zipping zap of yellow-white light that shot between the shoulders of Rophelius and Darwen. It traveled over the repeating waves and hit the runner squarely in the chest. He fell to the ground in a heap, shaking violently. Light adepts eliminated half of the runners in similar fashion, but the others reached the torrent and dove into it with the grace of a swan, disappearing into the water.

“Keep your eyes out!” Corson shouted. He spotted a man’s head emerging from the water to his right. Before he was able to catch his breath and dive back down, Corson had another rod aimed forward. The bolt struck the man in the temple. He didn’t dive a second time. He sank.

“AHHH!” Omily shouted ahead a few feet and to the right. Corson looked down, and even in the darkness and even on the satiated ground, he could see the blood pooling. He looked up Omily’s leg, and just above the knee was the tip of a sword protruding through her thigh.

Before Corson could react Darwen had shoved between the adepts in front of him. He had the attacker by the leather coverlet over his chest. A heavy headbutt to the face seemed to knock the man out. Darwen let one of his hands fall to his waist, and the short scimitar he pulled out was soon lodged deep into the man’s belly. He fell to the ground, but so too had Omily. Harmon was at her side, and Corson had fallen to his knees also. Rophelius only had time to acknowledge what had happened. He still had to lead.

“HALT!” he commanded.

The Forward ended ten yards before they reached the cluster. Darwen had already removed the blade. Corson had removed the upper half of his armor and torn off a loose white garment. He tied it tightly above the wound in a crude tourniquet. Omily was unconscious.

“They’re coming!” a voice shouted above in their line. Peatross appeared at the cluster of grounded adepts and held his glowing scimitar over them.

“Hold your ground!” Rophelius shouted. “Light adepts, aim as though it were the last shred of light your eyes would ever behold!”

Corson heard steel clashing. He looked up and saw stray fireballs and fireshots and light charges break the darkness. The wind had increased significantly, and he could tell by the gathering puddles that their torrent was quickly losing its essence. Surely the enemy was closing in. He stood up and came directly behind Rophelius so his mouth was right by his ear.

“Ro. Omily… it doesn’t look good.”

“Neither does that,” he said. His eyes were transfixed not on the battle unfolding before him, but the hilltop behind the cluster. Corson spotted it, too. The great fireball, a blaze of dancing flames that looked like a sun in the distance, grew and grew.

Antaleone Antrum controlled the fire before him with wondrous expertise. It was the size of a small wagon now, an orb of swirling flames floating a few feet off the ground. The entire hilltop glowed. Only two shadows hung by the fire. Antaleone’s was long, thin, like a fallen branch. His companion’s shadow was shorter, leaner. The two men stood high above the unfolding battle. Antaleone grinned behind his fire, cackled as the flames did, readying to strike.

Guyanno Greatwind stood mute, his face expressionless. He had reached the top of the hill first. Its incline wasn’t too steep, but it was tough to find a good footing. Guyanno had always been swift on his feet, even more so in open areas. The climb up the tree-riddled hillside was a long test of endurance which he won. He hadn’t offered a hand to his slower companion, but rather just watched as Antaleone finally caught up to him. They looked down the other side of the hill, dropping steeply before them. The battle had raged on near the foot of the hill, Antaleone’s mages and the enemy adepts fighting hand-to-hand or flourishing their element. Guyanno watched as the Antamage started forming his fireball almost immediately. It would have swallowed both of them if Antaleone wasn’t so skilled.

That would have been a better fate than the one he was about to deliver to close a thousand mages below. Guyanno would have sacrificed himself to save the allies set for slaughter. This extermination was one of three taking place, and the only one in which Guyanno would have a hand. These were the mages of Blazelands and Whisperwinds found to have views different than that of the Greatmage. They didn’t agree with his extremism and they would accept a change in customs with open arms. In truth, they were much the same as Guyanno, except they were foolish enough to share their notions with the wrong people. They had sealed their fate without knowing it.

 

            “Assume your position,” Antaleone said in a dull, monotone voice.

            “Perhaps the adepts will defeat them soundly,” Guyanno replied.

            Antaleone turned his head. Under the tall trees, beneath the darkness of his hooded cloak, his face was barely visible. Not a single blink broke the glow of his orange-red eyes. His stare was long and full of intent. “And if one or two of these mages escape, we will have failed my father. That is not acceptable. You will assume your position, and you will remember your position under the Greatmage and me. Yes, Guyanno?”

            “It is wrong,” he said with a cracked voice, his throat drying so quickly he could feel it.

            “Their minds are blurred.”

            “They are good men.”

            “Men who want to progress into some new age, like the fools in Lightwater! Women on the lines. Marrying out of some misguided idealism of love and destiny. Equality! It is not the way it was intended.”

            “I agree, but… they’ve fought alongside us. They are brave and worthy warriors, mages with whom we’ve bled and burnt and blown for years.”

            “They would have us weaken our ranks for love!” Antaleone spat, finally turning fully to face Guyanno. The fireball lost some of its fine edges and took on a life of its own. “Our powers are already nominal compared to that of our ancients. I will not live to see it lessened by anything other than the passing of time. We will sweep out this pocket of men who have lost their way. And we will take out as many adepts as we can in the process.”

            Guyanno hated looking into these fiery eyes. Crow’s feet jutted out from the edges, and there were heavy black bags underneath. Guyanno wanted to see the man he used to know again. He wished Antaleone’s fire within would quell. “It is wrong,” he said again, assuredly. “You still know that word, Ant. I know you do.”

            “It is the will of my father, Greatmage Antaleone Antrum the forty-ninth, and the will of all true mages of the Blazelands! Are you not such a man?!” Antaleone took a step towards him. His voice became more calculated. “Have you forgotten your place by my father’s side?”

            “I have not forgotten,” Guyanno said, letting his eyes drop to the ground. His hand moved to his side. The dense leather of his windwhip was still cool to the touch despite the nearby fire. Breezes from the adepts’ storm had cooled the warm air the mages brought with them. Set in the pommel of his whip was his windgem, a six-sided ametrine of purple and gold hues spinning into each other.

            “Then prove your worth yet again, great ally. Live up to your name and beyond. Earn the glory and gifts my father will bestow.”

            Behind Antaleone, passed the fireball, down the hillside, adepts threatened the remaining cluster of strong-willed mages. The enemy’s torrent had progressed forward, and so did the adepts behind it. The mages reformed their line, and in a flash of wind and flame moved forward itself, albeit much slower than the adepts. Wind mages swooshed the fire of their allies into charged rushes of water that skilled adepts pushed ahead of their line. Guyanno could see men burning, drowning, and frying. He suddenly felt very warm, and his forehead started to bead with sweat. Then he broke his eyes from the battle and stared at the fire Antaleone controlled. Guyanno glared at the mandarine garnets set into Antaleone’s palms, their deep red like fiery comets in a pale sky. Around it had healed as nicely as on any other fire mage, but Guyanno noticed the skin had started to cover the edges of the firerocks, as if they were growing into him. What had started as the flame of a candle had grown to the size of a lord’s litter. Antaleone gestured his hands in erratic circles and muttered incoherent words in a muffled, deep tone.

            Guyanno knew it was time for him to prepare. Creating a great gust was done in a small fraction of the time, but he still had to be ready. He shot his whip backwards and then brought it up, and within a few twirls above both his and Antaleone’s heads, the clouds had thrown down a dark gray cyclone whose tip followed the motions of the windwhip. Very few wind mages could harness their element in such a terrifying and powerful manner. He did it with the same grace and authority that took him so high in the Greatmage’s ranks. Guyanno looked up and saw the purple and gold moving within the glowing, pulsing light of his windgem. He looked down again, over Antaleone’s shoulder, and the waves on either side had broken. Adepts and mages were clashed together in great numbers now, and he saw bursts of flame hit shields of water, bolts of light strike men down, whips of wind turn women onto the edge of a sword.

            Antaleone raised both his arms slowly. His hands were as far apart as they could reach. Before him, floating ominously, was a fireball with enough concentrated energy to destroy a castle wall. Behind it was a cyclone with enough energy to sweep it downhill and incinerate anything in its path.

            “AaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!” Antaleone yelled, and he dropped his hands just as Guyanno snapped his whip downwards, pulling the cyclone from the sky and sending it behind the fire. The ball spread, and spread, and spread, and it fell to the foot of the hill. Antaleone’s hands were still glowing as he held them outstretched and navigated the firewall with the dexterity that only the fiftieth Greatmage of the Blazelands would possess.

“Walls, with all haste!” Rophelius shouted, once in either direction. A few other adepts had spotted the fireball too and watched with wide eyes as it zipped down the hillside. “Close to the water adepts! Abandon the battle!”

            Many adepts were still in heated fights. Rophelius knew there wasn’t time to help them. He turned and dropped to his knees. “Give me her stone, Harmon,” he said. It was quickly in his hand. “Take the boy’s. Corson, Darwen… as tight as you can over her.”

            Corson crouched over Omily’s legs, Darwen over her head. Rophelius and Harmon stood at either end and held the four waterstones high while Peatross maintained concentration in between. They all glowed in unison. The rain around them all but stopped, and instead fell in heavier and heavier downpours over water adepts that had clustered with a few allies. These downpours soon turned into curved waterwalls over the pockets of adepts. Advancing mages took advantage of the adepts’ sudden change to defense and cut them down with brutal ferocity. These same enemies weren’t smart enough to turn around and spot the impending firewall. They would be lost in the flames. So would all those whose protective adepts had been slain and were not safe behind a waterwall. So would those whose shields might not prove to be strong enough.

            Corson looked up from his crouched position. The fire wall had reached the foot of the hill. It started engulfing stray enemy mages who had straggled behind their line. Soon it reached the remaining cluster of mages. They disappeared in the flames.

            “AHH!” Harmon yelled from above. Corson looked up and turned his head as much as he could, not wanting to break Rophelius’ concentration in the slightest. A spear had broken through the water dome and through one of Harmon’s shoulders. Darwen was quick to pull one of his daggers from an ankle holster. He reached through the waterwall and gutted the enemy that stood on the other side.

            “Stay strong, Harmon, Peatross! It is here!” Rophelius yelled at that instant.

            Corson had turned his attention away from the skirmish just in time to see the flames surround the waterwall. He heard Darwen shouting blasphemies and turned to see him pull his arm back into the shield. He had dropped his dagger, and his hand and forearm were burnt horridly. It looked like his skin was melted and mixed around with the tip of a dowel, yet it still clung to the limb. He held it tight to his body, trying his best to not scream in agonizing pain, to not break the concentration of Rophelius, Peatross, and their injured comrade.

            Corson watched the blood drip down Harmon’s back and onto the crouched Darwen. He turned his head in both directions, and between both mages’ legs the water had taken on a hellish red hue. He was wet before, and slightly cold, but now he was sweating. The water was surely boiling, and the firewall had only been on them for a few seconds. And they were trapped inside, surrounded by water but sweating, surrounded by death but surviving.

            Too much had happened in just a few minutes. Omily was unconscious, possibly knocking on death’s door. Harmon had been speared, but was still on his feet. Darwen’s arm had literally gone raw. It was burnt, too burnt to look upon, and still steaming. But the fire had passed. Harmon dropped his stones first. It was out of pain, or he would have held it until his leader had commanded otherwise. He fell to his knees. Rophelius and Peatross held the shield in place about thirty seconds longer. Surely it was weaker without Harmon, but it was still enough to stop any stray flames. Eventually they realized their efforts were wasted. The fire had passed. There weren’t even anymore swords to battle. They let the waterwall subside.

            Rain fell steadily again. It worked to put out any man or woman who was still ablaze. The pitter-patter of raindrops on armor was all that broke the eerie silence for a while. Rophelius surveyed the scene in front of him. He still faced the hill. All of its grass was dead, some patches still burning. A few trees that jutted out from the hillside were burning too, but most had burst into flames so quick and powerful that they had fallen apart. He let his eyes trail down the hill to the scene in front of him. No one was on their feet. No one was moving. No one was alive. It was impossible to tell ally from enemy. Mostly everyone’s skin had been melted off, and those that were in steel armor were the only ones still clothed. A small lake of skeletons lay in front of him, corpses floating in mud and blood and singed flesh. To his left Rophelius spotted clusters of adepts who had managed to survive through the fire with their units intact. There weren’t many, perhaps twenty to thirty on both sides. But everyone who lived was his ally, his friend. Some of the adepts were on their knees, gasping for breath, both weakened by the output of power and distressed by the scene around them. A few of the more sensitive adepts and warriors had succumbed to crying, even shouting.

            “Rophelius,” Peatross said as he got to his feet behind his commander. “We must return to Trihill in all haste. They need healing, the three of them, and surely others.” He looked around as he said this, his face a mix of anguish and astonishment. The death and destruction sickened him, but the display of power impressed him. For that he felt guilty. “Why did they destroy their own army? Are there more on the hilltop?”

            “Questions to be asked and answered later,” Rophelius said as he turned to face the rest of his allies. The other adepts had already circled around them, and a few were on the ground tending to the injured as best they could. “We must return to Trihill to help the wounded. Then we must return to The Tear. In all haste, indeed.”

“Father will be pleased,” Antaleone said casually as he passed Guyanno, his cloak brushing against his arm. “Come now, Greatwind. We ride in haste to home and to glory.”

            “Will they chase us?” Guyanno asked, still dumbfounded.

            Antaleone placed a hand on Guyanno’s shoulder. It was not warm, but hot, even through Guyanno’s shirt. He wanted to pull away. It was so hot, especially at the firerock, he thought it would burn him. But he stayed still. The destruction was too vast and wonderful to look away.

“No, they will not chase us,” Antaleone practically whispered into his ear. “They don’t know who cast that upon them. And even if they did know it was only two men, they wouldn’t dare test our powers again. They are too few now.”

Any doubt Guyanno had before executing this mission had disappeared. He knew he hadn’t said enough to make Antaleone doubt his allegiance. Now he realized that if mages could still tap such powers, they should be kept intact for as long as possible. The Greatmage was an often cruel and unreasonable man, but he knew what was necessary for his people. Fire was all they had in the Blazelands. It had slowly weakened through the two decades in which Guyanno had risen, and even more so in generations passed. Now there was no doubt in Guyanno’s mind. That era had ended. Only men who could do awesome and awful things with fire survived and wind. The Blazelands was set to rise again. “Shall we send another?” Guyanno asked.

“No, Guyanno,” Antaleone answered soothingly. “Some must live to spread word among these miscreants… word of the great and previously unseen chaos they bravely endured… word of the death they so narrowly escaped. Let them retreat. And retreat they will. Far, I’m sure.”

The last three words were especially soft, and they lingered in the air that had quickly warmed and seemed to grow even warmer as the seconds passed. Guyanno felt Antaleone’s hand finally leave his shoulder, and he turned to follow his Antamage, the next Greatmage, into the line of trees at the top of the hill. Their mounts waited in a clearing not too deep into the woods at the bottom of the slight descent they had walked up not an hour’s half before. Through the maze of branches and leaves above their heads, Guyanno spotted a few stars and the Bloodmoon beyond to the northwest. Never had its color looked so appropriate. Its red was deep, and it didn’t shine like the moon usually did. It was dull, truly lifeless, just hanging, just watching.

            Their phoenixes were in the center of the field, their wide feathered tails facing them as they emerged into the clearing. Their necks were craned over their meal, a mid-sized woodland creature, its breed unrecognizable after they had cooked it to their desire. The phoenixes weren’t yet fully grown. The Greatmage insisted they were only half-matured. Still, they could spew fire enough to kill defenseless animals, and they could fly just as swiftly as any bird.

            “Finish up, boys,” Guyanno said as he closed in on his phoenix. It turned and let out a crude coo before returning to its prey, hastening its dissection.

            “The moon casts its approval as well,” Antaleone finally noticed. “It is redder on this rise than any other Bloodmoon of the year. Father is a clever man.”

            “If it could, it would bow before your father just as I do,” Guyanno said. “He is clever indeed, and wise. Fires burn brighter under the Bloodmoon.”

            “So it is said. Every man must answer to someone, and my father answers to the Bloodmoon and Deadflame, as did all of his fathers’ fathers before him.”

            “What of the glory you spoke?” Guyanno asked as he climbed upon the harness on the phoenix’s back. They had grown tired of their meal and tossed it aside. It landed in a heap of remains along the tree line.

            Antaleone made his ascent onto his mount next. It wasn’t nearly as graceful as Guyanno’s, but he was soon comfortably in his own curved harness. His phoenix was a bit larger. It was one of the two Majestics, a gift from the Greatmage. “Father has promised a great reward for both you and me.”

            “We have done a great thing today, Ant,” Guyanno said as he grabbed the reins on either side of his harness. “Rise, phoenix!”

            “Of this I was aware from the start,” Antaleone said as he gripped tightly to his reins. Flying came much more naturally to Guyanno, for the wind was his trade. The Antamage was still perfecting the art of flight. They soared up quickly, soon above the trees and heading west, still rising. “I’m glad your doubts were lessened.”

            “Lessened, no,” Guyanno said, louder, fighting the air they rushed through. Soon Guyanno changed direction to hasten their flight. His phoenix took the lead as the Majestic flew just a bit further back. They had to shout to hear each other now. “Eliminated, yes!”

            “My father saw the weakness evident in those who wanted to think like the adepts think!” Antaleone said, matching Guyanno’s louder tone. “They were once great men, but they weren’t when they were incinerated. Their powers had lost their focus. Any great fire mage could survive flames such as those. Their minds and hearts and souls were no longer up to the standards of the Greatmage or the Bloodmoon or the first fire.”

            “Yes!” Guyanno agreed, exhilarated. Nothing satisfied him more than flight. He was giddy, even. The phoenix’s wings flapped on either side, pushing against the air. The great wingspan, destined to grow even wider, took them over the thin woods quickly. They passed over the northwestern edges of the Hillands and could make out the dead lands of The Retreat set in a dull red hue. The Great Chasm lay below them like a rotted black scar over the land. It was the only border of the Blazelands. They flew over farms and small villages and singular abodes alike. They spotted a couple of caravans traveling by night. And they were rising, still. They were rising towards the Bloodmoon, and as they got closer to the capitol, the moon grew larger.

“We must weed out the weak, Guyanno!” Antaleone shouted. The Bloodmoon threatened to swallow them, a feeling that empowered him much the same as it did Guyanno. “Tonight was only the beginning. Our ranks will be stronger than they’ve been in centuries!”

“YES!” Guyanno yelled through the night sky. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Bloodmoon. It truly was a deeper red than he had ever seen. He didn’t want to look down, not ever again. The moon was too enthralling.

“Together, you and I will mold our mages into the mightiest army this realm has ever seen, in this age or any prior! And when we have reached the peak of our power, we will crush the adepts into submission, as it was meant to be so long ago!”

“Yeeeeeesssss!” Guyanno shouted, and the phoenix let out a great, screeching squawk that cut through the land. The wind mage let out a maniacal laugh. “Ascend!”

Antaleone held onto his reins so tightly his knuckles hurt. He had never been so high.

Guyanno finally took his eyes off the Bloodmoon and looked down. The Great Chasm behind them was almost out of sight, but it wrapped around Blazelands and he could soon spot the rest of the massive gap. He could start his descent now and land right at the city entrance. But he felt too high to fall now. Fires on the ground went from spotted to clustered as they closed in on Leonia, so tall with its great spires and spiked towers. Guyanno could see clearly the further side of the chasm then, most of its length on either side of the capitol ablaze with flames shooting a dozen feet into the air. The great walls of Leonia were similarly lit. Home looked so inviting, but Guyanno continued to rise.

Reviews

[Vouren]

good story so far, I'll have to read more once I get some more time!