A Sky of Spells

CHAPTER FOUR

Alistair sprinted her way through the chaotic battlefield, weaving her way in and out of the soldiers as they fought for their lives against the army of undead rising up all around them. Moans and shrieks filled the air as the soldiers killed the ghouls—and as the ghouls, in turn, killed the soldiers. The Silver and MacGils and Silesians fought boldly—but they were vastly outnumbered. For each undead they killed, three more appeared. It was only a matter of time, Alistair could see, until all of her people were wiped out.

Alistair doubled her speed, running with all she had, her lungs bursting, ducking as an undead swiped for her face and crying out as another scratched her arm, drawing blood. She did not stop to fight them. There was no time. She had to find Argon.

She ran in the direction she had seen him last, when he was fighting Rafi and had collapsed from the effort. She prayed it had not killed him, that she could rouse him, and that she could make it before she and all her people were killed.

An undead appeared before her, blocking her way, and she held out her palm; a white ball of light struck it in the chest, knocking it backwards.

Five more appeared, and she held out her palm—but this time, only one more ball of light emerged, and the other four closed in on her. Her powers, she was surprised to realize, were limited.

Alistair braced herself for attack as they closed in—when she heard a snarling noise and looked over to see Krohn, leaping beside her and sinking his fangs into their throats. The undead turned on him, and Alistair found her chance. She elbowed one in the throat, knocking it over, and ran.

Alistair pushed her way through the chaos, desperate, the ghouls increasing in number by the moment, her people beginning to be pushed back. As she ducked and weaved, she finally emerged into a small clearing, the place where she remembered seeing Argon.

Alistair scanned the ground, desperate, and finally, between all the corpses, she found him. He was lying there, slumped on the ground, curled up in a ball. He lay in a small clearing and clearly he had cast some sort of spell to keep others away from him. He was unconscious, and as Alistair rushed to his side, she hoped and prayed he was still alive.

As she came closer, Alistair felt enveloped, protected in his magic bubble. She took a knee beside him and took a deep breath, finally safe from the battle all around her, finding respite in the eye of the storm.

Yet Alistair was also struck with terror as she looked down at Argon: he lay there, eyes closed, not breathing. She was flooded with panic.

“Argon!” she cried out, shaking his shoulders with both hands, trembling. “Argon, it’s me! Alistair! Wake up! You have to wake up!”

Argon lay there, unresponsive, while all around her, the battle was intensifying.

“Argon, please! We need you. We cannot combat Rafi’s magic. We do not have the skills that you do. Please, come back to us. For the Ring. For Gwendolyn. For Thorgrin.”

Alistair shook him, you still he did not respond.

Desperate, an idea came to her. She lay both palms on his chest, closed her eyes and focused. She summoned all of her inner energy, whatever was left, and slowly, she felt her hands warm. As she opened her eyes, she saw a blue light emanating from her palms, spreading over his chest and shoulders. Soon it enveloped his entire body. Alistair was using an ancient spell she had once learned, to revive the sick. It was draining her, and she felt all the energy leaving her body. Getting weak, she willed for Argon to come back.

Alistair collapsed, exhausted from the effort, and lay at Argon’s side, too weak to move.

She sensed movement, and she looked over and to her amazement saw Argon begin to stir.

He sat up and turned to her, his eyes shining with an intensity that scared her. He stared at her, expressionless, then reached over, grabbed his staff, and gained his feet. He reached out one hand, grabbed hers, and effortlessly yanked her to her feet.

As he held her hand, she felt all of her own energy restored.

“Where is he?” Argon asked.

Argon did not wait for an answer; it was as if he knew exactly where he needed to go, as he turned, staff at his side, walked right into the thick of battle.

Alistair couldn’t understand how Argon was not hesitant to stroll into the soldiers. Then she understood why: he was able to cast a magical bubble around him as he went, and as the undead charged him from all sides, none were able to penetrate it. Alistair stuck close to him as he marched fearlessly, harmlessly through the thick of the battle, as if strolling through a meadow on a sunny day.

The two of them made their way through the battlefield, and he kept silent, marching, dressed in his long white cloak and hood, walking so fast that Alistair could barely keep up.

He finally stopped at the center of the battle, in a clearing, opposite which stood Rafi. Rafi still stood there, holding both arms out at his sides, his eyes rolled back in his head as he summoned thousands of undead, pouring out of the crevice in the earth.

Argon raised a single palm high overhead, palm up, facing the sky, and opened his eyes wide.

“RAFI!” he screamed in challenge.

Despite all the noise, Argon’s scream cut through the battle, resonating off the hills.

As Argon shrieked, suddenly the clouds parted high above. A white stream of light came flying down, from the sky, right to Argon’s palm, as if connecting him to the very heavens. The stream of light grew wider and wider, like a tornado, enveloping the battlefield, enveloping everything around him.

There came a great wind and a great whooshing noise, and Alistair watched in disbelief as beneath her the ground began to shake even more violently, and the huge crevice in the earth began to move in the opposite direction, slowly sealing itself backup.

As it began to close on itself, dozens of undead shrieked, crushed as they tried to crawl out.

Within moments, hundreds of undead were slipping, sliding back down to the earth, as the crevice became more and more narrow.

The earth shook one last time, then grew quiet, as the crevice finally sealed itself, the ground whole again, as if no fissure had ever appeared. The awful shrieks of the undead filled the air, muted from beneath the earth.

There came a stunned silence, a momentary lull in battle, as everyone stood and watched.

Rafi shrieked and turned and set his sights on Argon.

“ARGON!” Rafi shrieked.

The time had come for the final clash of these two great titans.

Rafi ran into the open clearing, holding his red staff high, and Argon did not hesitate, racing out to greet Rafi.

The two met in the middle, each wielding their staffs high overhead. Rafi brought his staff down for Argon and Argon raised his and blocked it. A great white light arose, like sparks, as they met. Argon swung back, and Rafi blocked.

Back and forth they went, blow for blow, attacking, blocking, white light flying everywhere. The ground shook with each of their blows, and Alistair could feel a monumental energy in the air.

Finally, Argon found his opening, swinging his staff from underneath, upwards, and as he did, shattering Rafi’s staff.

The ground shook violently.

Argon stepped forward, raised his staff high overhead with two hands, and plunged it straight down, right through Rafi’s chest.

Rafi let out an awful shriek, thousands of small bats flying out of his mouth as his jaw remained wide open. The skies turned black for a moment, as thick black clouds gathered from the heavens, right over Rafi’s head, and swirled down to earth. They swallowed him whole, and Rafi howled as he spun through the air, yanked upwards, into the skies, heading up to some awful fate that Alistair did not want to imagine.

Argon stood there, breathing hard, as all finally fell silent, Rafi dead.

The army of undead shrieked, as one at a time, they all disintegrated before Argon’s eyes, each falling into a mound of ashes. Soon the battlefield was littered with thousands of mounds, all that remained of Rafi’s evil spells.

Alistair surveyed the battlefield and saw there was only one battle left to wage: across the clearing, her brother, Thorgrin, was already facing off with their father, Andronicus. She knew that in the battle to come, one of these determined men would lose their lives: her brother or her father. She prayed that it was her brother who came out alive.