Soul Fire (Darkling Mage 8)

Mason fought ahead of our pack, using his massive golden shield like some sort of one-man Roman phalanx. I was almost afraid for how gung-ho he was getting, charging into the glorious dead like a human – sorry, nephilim battering ram, but they were dropping like flies under his assault.

Maybe that had to do with how Bastion was fighting abreast of him, swinging his arm like he was slicing with a great, invisible blade. The dead fell into pieces with every swipe. As numerous as Odin’s warriors were, maybe we could still whittle them down after all.

And Bastion’s presence was a reminder of all the things he taught me, or rather, of what he’d tried to teach me. I still couldn’t exactly wrap my head around the idea of replicating his arcane grenades – how the hell was I supposed to wrap fire in darkness? – but I did the next best thing, scattering handfuls of flame and little shards of shadow from the Dark Room among the warriors.

It worked. They exploded like fragmentation grenades, the horrible spikes of solid darkness rocketing in every direction like shrapnel, their speed powered by clumps of angry, explosive fire. I was shredding the dead.

Then suddenly, a distant howl.

Romira sent a fireball banging into the air like a signal flare, drawing our attention. “This way,” she shouted. “I see him. We’ve been following the wrong dog.”

My heart

pounded double time. Please be safe, I thought. Please, let him be safe.

Taking the detour meant pushing through another crowd of Odin’s fallen, but while they had the numbers, we had all the magic. Swords, maces, and shields were nice, but they weren’t any match for fireballs, bone spears, and, I proudly thought, my nifty new shadowfire grenades.

Onwards we ran, Mason and Bastion leading the charge, smashing dead Vikings out of our way as Asher, Royce, Romira, and I rained supporting fire from the rear. Soon we’d come close enough to Romira’s three-headed hound to spot it running in the distance, until it vanished in a puff of white smoke. As we drew closer, I saw why.

The ground here was even colder, wetter, and more slippery, because it was slick with ice. Bizarre white growths of rock – more like spires and pillars, actually – dotted the landscape, breaking the monotony of dark, featureless stone. Romira’s hound had collided with one of these pillars and poofed out of existence. Even enchanted fire couldn’t handle the freezing cold of this odd realm’s magical ice.

But they weren’t spires of white stone. Columns upon columns of the structures grew thicker as we progressed, almost like a forest. They were spikes of thick, sturdy ice, each ending in a point, each only slightly taller than a man. I looked closer as we passed. Every one of these grotesque icicles contained a single man, his features frozen in terror. What the hell were we up against?

A fleck of something wet and cold drifted onto the tip of my nose, and I flinched. I looked up. It was snowing. And just up ahead, there he was, kneeling in a pile of snow. His clothes were torn, his hair flecked with white. Fingers crusted over with arcane frost pushed more and more pulses of ice magic into the ground.

“Herald.”

I broke into a run, hardly even thinking to myself. Was it an illusion? A trick by Odin? I didn’t care anymore. I threw myself at Herald, my knees crunching into the snow as I slid to the ground.

“You’re okay,” I said. “You’re fine.”

He looked up at me, eyes burning. “What the hell took you so long?”

I blinked at him in confusion, then looked around. There were more of the giant icicles in the distance, just beyond him.

“You did this,” I said softly, my epiphany dawning on me with a mix of dread and awe.

“I spent every last ounce of magic I had left,” Herald said. “I’m so damn tired. What the hell kind of a rescue was this? I wiped out half of Odin’s army myself. Amateurs.”

“Now, now,” I said, patting him on the back of the neck. “You’re just being grumpy because – ”

“Dustin, I love you, but I swear, if you keep talking, I will use what’s left of me to turn you into a human popsicle.”

I shut up immediately.

“Nice outfit,” Bastion said, chuckling.

Herald clutched at the tattered remnants of his shirt, covering himself up. “Die in several fires, Brandt.” Asher knelt by him, examining him for wounds, offering healing magic that Herald gratefully accepted. Good old Asher.

Romira turned to Royce, tugging on his sleeve. “Can you teleport us out of here?”

“No can do. I’ve tried, but something about this place is stopping me. We’ll have to walk back out.” Royce turned in place, taking in the thicket of frozen dead around us, whistling to himself. “Damn, Igarashi. You did all this? Impressive as hell.” He stopped turning, then fixed Herald with an incredulous look. “Is that why it’s so cold? Is that why the ground is so slippery? Did you actually try to freeze this entire dimension?”

Herald gave Royce a reproachful glare, but I could tell that he was holding back a proud smile and trying not to look so pleased with himself. I scooted closer, meaning every word I spoke next.

“You really did all this, didn’t you? I’ve – I’ve never been more attracted to you.”

“Cute,” Herald grumbled. “But now’s not the time. We have to deal with him.”