Last Rites (Darkling Mage 6)

Bastion stepped up to my side, a hand on his hip, his blond hair expertly mussed. He cocked an eyebrow at me, then clucked his tongue. “You sitting this one out, Dusty? So lazy.”

I shoved him in the chest, even knowing it was a joke, a taunt. “You shut your damn mouth, Brandt, I’ve been teleported so many damn places tonight and lost so much blood that – ”

“Quit it, Bastion.” Prudence only just had enough time to give him that three-word command before she launched herself into the fight, fists and feet flaming with blue energy, exploding the shrikes with every strike.

“Yeah, Bastion. So rude.” Romira walked up to my side, her hands already loaded with little globes of flame. “He’s doing his best.” She held out her hand, like she was blowing a kiss, and the tiny fireballs followed, hurtling into the shrikes and exploding like grenades of pure eldritch flame.

“Thanks, you guys,” I said. “I’ll join you in a bit. Just – it’s been a long night.”

“Don’t mention it, Dusty,” Bastion said. He cleaved one hand through the air, and a huge, invisible blade severed six shrikes in a single blow. “I’ll be your hero.”

“Please, Brandt. That’s my job.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I heard Herald’s voice. I turned to him, the rainbow bolts of occult essence flashing, reflecting in his glasses like – like incredibly deadly fireworks. Thunderous arcane explosions and the dying, blubbering screams of so many shrikes filled the air. Very romantic. Herald nodded at me, but didn’t smile.

“Scale of one to ten,” I said. “How much do you hate me?”

“Hmm.” Herald bit his lip, bouncing a handful of what looked like ice crystals in his palm. “I’d say a solid eight. But we’ll work that out later.” He reared back, then twisted as he pitched forward, hurling the crystals at the shrikes. They grew into massive icicles as they flew, reaching the size of spears as they skewered the shrikes.

More and more sparks of magic brilliance shot across the battlefield, more than I could account for, and when I looked to either side of the portal, I saw why. The Lorica had finally – fucking finally sent people of their own. Wings and Hands, locked in battle, alongside the Boneyard at last.

Maybe we had a chance after all. We were about even with the shrikes, keeping the tide consistent. We just needed that extra push. I curled my fingers, summoning fire to support the others – except nothing happened. A plume the size of a candle flame appeared, wavered, then guttered out.

“Oh no,” I said, more to myself than anyone. “No, no, no.”

I’d finally done it. I was out of juice. No more mana. Between calling on the Dark Room so many times in one night and expending so much of my spiritual force in enchanting my amulet, I had close to nothing left for the fight. I could bleed myself again, I thought. But that worked just like my own energy, didn’t it? There wasn’t exactly an infinite supply.

I felt at my cheek and my chest, grimacing at the sting of my wounds. Blood was blood, wasn’t it? Wet and fresh, or coagulated and dry, surely it still kept my pact with the Dark.

My fingers parted, and despite the din of battle I focused on the frequencies of the Dark Room. I needed to fight. I had to help somehow. In the past I’d called on the Dark to deliver entire fields of nightmare scythes, maelstroms of black swords.

Just one, I told it. Just give me one blade. That was all I needed.

A gleaming point of solid night grew from out of the blood on my palm, longer and longer, until I had a sword of my own. I gripped its hilt in one hand, testing its weight. It was like wielding nothing, its balance so strange in its feather-lightness. And it was so thin, as narrow as a razor, like a sword rendered in only two dimensions, that I knew it would cut viciously if used in combat.

So cut I did, wading through the shrikes, hacking and slashing at the abominations, marveling at the night sword’s swiftness, its sharpness. One by one each shrike that approached perished, mutilated horribly by the blade’s cruel edge.

“Oh,” Asher yelled over his shoulder. “Another sword. How original.”

I swung my sword outward, killing another of the shrikes. “You’re really mean when you’re angry, you know that?”

Asher said nothing, just shouting wordlessly as he sank his bone blade into another shrike. Just ahead of me Herald was standing his ground, firing hail upon hail of razor-sharp shards made out of the purest ice. I ran up to him, eager to protect his back. He acknowledged my presence with a grunt, and we fought together, reaping a swathe through the shrikes.

“Listen, Herald,” I shouted. “I’m sorry I teased you so much. I like you a lot and this is all so new to me and I don’t want to ruin our friendship by messing up, so instead I – ”

“This is not the time, Dust,” he shouted back. “Shut up and focus. We’ll talk later.”

“Right,” I yelled. At least he was talking to me, right? That was one step.

Yet as hard as we fought, as many of the shrikes as we felled, more – ever more were pouring out of the portal. The speed of their birth was accelerating, as if compensating for the firepower coming from our end of Latham’s Cross. Something was seriously wrong. And as if my mounting dread wasn’t enough, the portal began to sing its terrible song louder, its shrieking voice reaching a horrific pitch.

“Ah. He comes.”

I shuddered at the voice, spinning on my heel, finding Izanami pressed too close to me yet again. Herald flinched when he caught sight of her, his fingers digging into the back of my jacket, like he was ready to drag me away. So. He did care after all.

“Who comes?” I asked her, gritting my teeth, irritated by her crypticness. I couldn’t tell if she was worse than Hecate. It was pretty close.

I followed Izanami’s finger as she pointed at the rift. The shrikes, the front guard of the Eldest, their infantry, meant to weaken us and tax our resources, had stopped coming. A single, gleaming white spike emerged from the portal, as long and as thick around as a spear.