Wild Magic

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The General stood outside the pointed arch that gave entry to the Fountain Court until the hosts eleven had passed through it and established themselves with their backs to the wall, then he strode into the Court, his bootheels ringing on the flags. He stopped before his son, appalled at what he saw.

“Is this what you’ve made of yourself, Mal?”

Faharmoy’s eyes were closed, his lips moving steadily as he passed his fingers along the bronze chain. He finished the prayer, draped the chain across his knees and looked up at his father. “Not I, but one far greater than I.”

“So you say.”

“So I say.” His eyes went blank, his hands tightened on the chain, then relaxed.

The General stepped back and stared at the shadow spreading from the wall, hovering over and around Faharmoy.

The shadow boiled and solidified.

Blocking out the great spiral tower beyond the Court, kneeling behind Faharmoy, Chumavayal cupped immense, powerful black hands about his Chosen Word and glared at Wenyarum Taleza.

The General stared into those molten red eyes and felt the breath sucked from his body. Behind him, armor clattered and clanked as the hosta flung themselves facedown on the flags. His own knees gave under him, dropped him onto the stone paving.

“Chumavayal,” he cried out. Then he, too, was facedown, plottings and fears forgotten, everything evaporated before the terror and majesty of the god.