The Fire King (Stormless Book 2), page 43
“You’re sure that the method you practiced with Idris will work?” Surge asked, bringing the peaceful lack of conversation to an end. “I am aware that weapon conjuration is a specialty of the Scorchers, but I’ve never heard of something like this.”
“It will work,” Faelyn said, lowering his head. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He suddenly found himself overcome with a desire to see his father.
His father would know what to do. He would know how to save the city. Despite all that was going on, he would be able to make him feel safe. Perhaps it was something about the way his father boomed with laughter after telling one of his silly jokes… The way that…
Faelyn blinked a few times, trying to stop the rising tears. He failed. He sniffled, bringing his arm to his face to try and wipe the tears away.
Surge grunted and turned away.
Faelyn lowered his head again, any hope of comfort fading from his mind. Surge had never been the type to give reassurance. Surge was a good leader, sure. But Surge… Surge could never compare to Faelyn’s father.
The King would have done everything in his power to save this city, and his family. Faelyn’s father would never have even let something like this happen. He had a certain way about him… A certain aura that somehow allowed him to talk and bargain his way out of a war. And even when it came down to it, his father found a way to minimize casualties on both sides.
He somehow maintained sight of the fact that, during war, both sides were simply trying to prove that their ideals were superior to those of their adversary. His father understood that any war could be solved with diplomacy, but sometimes the people of this world simply wouldn’t listen until a little blood had been spilled.
That was where his father excelled. Where others may have instigated slaughters and massacres, he would opt for small-scale skirmishes—like those in The Highlands. After enough of these, he would use his words to convince his opponents that the fighting should stop, and he would find a way to satisfy both himself and whomever Arvendon was facing.
But Avenos was gone.
Another tear slid down Faelyn’s cheek. He blinked a few times, sniffling again.
Surge had walked away now, leaving Faelyn alone in his grieving.
All these years living in that palace, and Faelyn had never thought that his father would be taken from him so soon. If he were still alive, then Cyfalion would’ve never been attacked. The Cyfali wouldn’t be marching toward them right now, and the Sucharans wouldn’t be close behind… All would be well.
Faelyn raised his eyes, blinking away the tears. His father would’ve given his life for this city. And if Faelyn needed to, he would do the same.
Faelyn sat on the balcony of the highest floor of Summerglass Palace. He sat alone, and that was the way he wanted it. Faelyn had sent his attendant inside to give himself some privacy a few moments before.
The lights of the Cyfali torches were all too close now in the dim evening sunset. The first lines of them were even beginning to settle a few hundred yards away from Arvendon’s walls. They were outside of the wards, and staying there for long would be difficult.
The darkness of night closed in around him. Everything seemed to have gone to hell when that Blood Sorcerer showed up in his father’s throne room, and now… Now all of this was happening. It was strange how such a small event had created such a massive, disastrous chain of events that led to this exact moment.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Faelyn flinched, startled by the approach of someone.
“We’ve just received word from the scouts,” a voice said.
Faelyn didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“There’s another army on the horizon,” Eithor said. “We can’t be certain, but we think that Freyfall’s forces plan to march on the city as well.”
Faelyn lowered his head, the weight of the situation pressing down upon him. The Freyfallion army had a large number of Cryostalkers and Whisperers—two things that Arvendon had not prepared for.
Night settled, the sun finally vanishing, taking the heat of the Blazeday with it. The stars began to poke through the darkening night sky, and the shadow of the Palace finally aligned with the darkness of the surrounding landscape.
Faelyn couldn’t find the words to speak. Freyfall’s arrival had solidified their fate. Perhaps they had stood a chance against two armies… but three? He could hear distant shouts as the soldiers undoubtedly tried to make last-minute preparations in light of the news.
He thought he could even hear Surge’s voice among them. Faelyn shook his head. The General was good—the best there was—but even he could do nothing in the face of this threat.
Faelyn’s original plan of surrendering the city now sounded almost pleasant, actually. But Surge would never do that—and Surge was the one who held the power now.
They had been doomed to fail all along, he supposed. Faelyn looked to the sky, almost praying to Niventia.
He had never put much time toward the Gods—perhaps this was his punishment for not doing so. There had never been much of a reason for him to pray. He had always been given everything he wanted, and, in his short life, he never recalled being in true danger—until the last six weeks, at least.
Faelyn felt a sudden presence of energy.
He sat up, hearing the slight clinking of the fragile Crystals that Eithor now pulled from his robes. Faelyn turned, staring at the bright orange light of the Scorcher Crystals.
“Faelyn,” Eithor said, his voice low.
Faelyn met his ice-blue eyes with both hardness and defeat. He had accepted his fate, but he would not go down easily.
“We both know that it’s time,” Eithor said.
“I know,” Faelyn said, lowering his head. “It won’t be long before they advance.”
“I’ve had a ship prepared. It leaves from the dock in under an hour,” Eithor said “I know that it’s dangerous, and I know that it’s last minute, but if we’re able to find somewhere we can—”
“Are you truly asking me to run away right now?” Faelyn asked. He kicked his legs to the side, turning the chair slightly. He grunted in pain, but did it again, now fully facing Eithor.
“Your Grace, you know that I wouldn’t ask you to do this unless—”
“This is my city.” Faelyn leaned forward. “I’m the one who brought us to this point, and now you’re asking me to abandon Arvendon when it needs me most?”
“Faelyn, you—” Eithor started.
“You have been a good mentor to me, but I think we both know that what you’re asking me to do is wrong,” Faelyn said, his voice low. “And what? You fill a fountain with Incendiary and you think your work is done? You’ve hardly done anything to help us prepare, and now you’re asking me to come with you while you run away from this fight? You could help us, Eithor. You’re a powerful Summoner, and I know that it’s well within your abilities to at least cause a distraction or two.”
“You destroyed a Monolith in a blind rage the last time you took up arms,” Eithor said, his eyes stuck on Faelyn. “You truly think that entering another fight is the best decision?”
“When I did that, I was acting out of rage and fear,” Faelyn said. “I face the events of tomorrow with the knowledge that death is a very likely possibility. I know that many of my people will die—maybe even all of us—but I also know that it is for good reason.”
“You’re dooming yourselves, Faelyn.” Eithor’s voice rose. “You and I both know that you need to leave… It is the only way.”
“The only way to do what, Eithor?” Faelyn asked, tilting his head. He kept his voice calm, even. “The only way for me to survive? Or the only way for you to survive?” Faelyn leaned forward.
Eithor took a step back, lowering the Crystals. “Faelyn,” he started.
“When the fight begins, help us if you want,” Faelyn said, turning away. “If you choose not to, then do both of us a favor and get out of my city.” Faelyn’s eyes settled on the distant torches as they approached. “You are dismissed.”
Faelyn reached down, hitting the bell with his nub of a hand. The doors opened quickly and Eithor backed away from the balcony.
As Faelyn was wheeled to his chambers, he felt no fear. Whatever happened when he awoke… Well, it would happen, and that was that.
He had done everything that he wished to. He had made his final amends, mostly. Sure, he wished that the last couple of weeks hadn’t gone the way they did, but… What could he do now?
He was finished, and he was alright with that.
When he finally reached his rooms, and was laid into bed by the servants, Faelyn felt a wave of calmness wash over him. There was nothing left to do now except enjoy one final sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE FIRE KING PART II
Faelyn Titansworn was dreaming of his father when the bells rang. He woke at the second strike. He was sitting up by the third.
It wasn’t long before he knew what was happening. The shouting beyond his rooms was telling enough, and the lights beyond his windows only made it more obvious.
The Cyfali had not waited until morning to attack.
Faelyn twisted, sighting the moons in the sky beyond his window. The Sucharans would likely have arrived by now, which explained why the Cyfali had initiated the assault.
The Freyfallion army would still be at least an hour away—hopefully—though Faelyn wasn’t even sure if the city would still be standing by the time they arrived.
A servant burst through the door to his chambers, accompanied by two guards. The servant grabbed the chair by Faelyn’s bed and shouted for him to get in.
“No,” Faelyn said softly. “I don’t need it.”
The servant looked at him, perplexed. The guards exchanged glances. Bells continued to ring overhead, their sounds echoing through the city.
A loud crash sounded somewhere beyond the walls of the castle, likely the sound of a catapult shell landing nearby.
Faelyn had made up his mind. If this city fell, he was going to fall with it.
He reached out, the bandages on his hands searing off at the appearance of bright orange flames. The nubs of his arms were exposed now, bright shining fires burning atop his forearms. Faelyn grunted as he pushed with all of his might, concentrating the flames into solid forms and shoving them forward. He roared, his arms burning with the heat of Helionn’s Sun as the edges of his night clothing singed off.
Slowly, the heat built itself into a thin, wrist-sized column. It pressed onward, burning through Faelyn’s skin and lungs. It hurt, but he kept pushing. He couldn’t stop now. Hours of working with Idris had prepared him for this.
Weeks spent rolling around in that blasted chair, and here he was, Summoning a pair of hands made of pure fire for himself.
The guards jumped back, bewildered.
Faelyn continued roaring, the pain becoming almost unbearable as his phantom limbs extended, and bright orange transparent hands began to form at the ends of his conjured wrists.
Faelyn could suddenly feel the air on his fingertips once again. He could feel the slight breeze coming through the open door. He could feel the vibrations of the battle beyond the Palace.
He reached down, leaning forward. He began the same process in his legs. Faelyn grunted again, holding out his hand.
“More Crystals!” Faelyn roared.
The servant and guards cried out. The lead guard tore off his chestplate, producing a small set of Scorcher Crystals.
Another of Faelyn’s Crystals burned out. He was using them up quickly, but he would have enough. He had to have enough. His ankles formed, twisting and turning in swirling torrents of flame until they finally solidified, a small pair of spectral feet beneath them.
Faelyn rose, finding himself slightly uneven on his Summoned limbs. He snapped his fire-fingers, pointing to the closet. A white-gold sliver of his armor peeked out from the cracked door. It was a replica of the armor he had worn for the Cyfalion attack. The Crystals had been filled the night before, and now that Faelyn could walk again he could use the armor for his final fight.
Faelyn staggered over to the armor, leaving cinders and patches of burned carpet behind him as he walked. He took the armor in his flaming hands, feeling it warm beneath his sun-blessed grasp. The last time he had worn this, he had used it to destroy a city. And now… Now, he was going to use it to save one.
“Fire!” Elias Surge roared, hoisting his greatsword to the sky. The Incendiary Cannons fired, sending massive chunks of flaming metal toward the invaders. Arvendon’s troops had been standing atop the walls when they had started falling to arrows in the night.
The invaders had struck quietly, and without warning.
Arvendon had responded with haste. Surge had never gone to sleep. Neither had most of the soldiers.
Falx stood by his side, barking orders from the top of Summerglass’s hill.
Another wave of ballistae fired, sending huge bolts into the night sky.
Endless rows of torches lined the outskirts of Arvendon, just beyond the wall. There was shouting and screaming beneath them, far below at the main gate. Arrows whisked through the air. Swords swung in the night, cutting through flesh and bone. Wind whistled, pushed by Cloudwalkers and ignited by Scorchers as they stormed the gates.
“Reinforcements down to the main gate!” Falx shouted, running over to the side. “We can’t let them through yet. Our troops are still getting into place!”
Surge grunted, the thrill of the fight rising within his veins. He turned to the west, where the thousands of troops now marched on the city. The Cyfali were in the front, the Sucharans just behind them, and the Freyfallion army a few miles back.
Izara’s Shadow… Three armies… Two might have been beatable, but not three. But it was too late now. Surge looked down, his eyes settling on the flaming walls of the main gate.
Incendiary Cannons fired, alternating shots with ballistae.
Something whistled to his right.
Surge spun, catching sight of something moving in the dark sky above. He opened his mouth, preparing to shout orders when a sudden force collided with him.
Surge lurched backward, thrown by the invisible push of a Cloudwalker.
“Fire the Cloudcatchers!” Falx commanded.
The soldiers shouted, cranking the massive launcher to the side, trying to angle it correctly. It was too late.
Surge rolled to the side, pushing himself to his feet and shrugging off the impact of the hit.
Four Cloudwalkers dashed through the sky, charging Surge and Falx’s group.
The Voltarian Crystals within Surge’s armor crackled to life, bringing his body alive with electricity.
It was time.
Soldiers screamed, their bodies torn apart by the flying swords of the attacking Cloudwalkers. They had gone straight for the Palace, opting to eliminate the guards and go for the nobles. It was smart, except for one thing: Surge was there.
Lightning cracked, arcing through the air. It raced through the sky in the blink of an eye and struck one of the Cloudwalkers square in the chest. The Summoner cried out for a quarter of a second before he was thrown to the ground by the violent force of the strike.
Surge had to fight to keep the lightning on target due to the lightning rods, but he was the strongest Voltarian in the world; he could manage it.
Surge roared, charging forward. His sword glowed with lightning, electricity radiating from the metal as Surge sprinted forward.
Somewhere to the side, Falx brought down one of the Cloudwalkers with his own strike.
A Cloudwalker zipped by, cutting down another Arvendi soldier before returning to the skies. He looped around, preparing for another strafe, but Surge was ready.
Leaping into the air, Surge shot a bolt of lightning beneath himself, launching into the sky with a blinding speed. His battle cry rang through the night as he plunged his greatsword into the Cloudwalker’s body. Surge roared with delight, digging the blade deep into the Cloudwalker’s side and bringing him down. Surge twisted, and the pair slammed into the ground.
He stepped back, remaining perfectly upright after the fall; the Cloudwalker had taken most of the impact. Surge’s greatsword still impaled the man’s chest, electricity sparking through the now sizzling sockets of the Cloudwalker’s eyes.
Surge tore the blade from the man’s corpse.
Turning to the side, Surge charged the last Cloudwalker. The man slid to the ground, reaching out with twin silver blades and cutting down a pair of Arvendi soldiers.
The Cloudwalker dove to the side and threw his blades forward. The swords crashed into one of the ballistae, shattering the cranks and switches at the back.
Surge growled and charged.
The Cloudwalker spun, pulling his blades back to his hands. He cried out with fury and threw his hands forward.
Surge ducked into a slide, dodging the flying blades of the Cyfali Cloudwalker. Surge rose to his feet mid-slide, and continued forward.
A stray arrow soared through the air toward the Cloudwalker. A simple wave of the man’s hand threw it out of his path.
Rising into the air with another blast of lightning, Surge readied his blade. He sensed something behind him—a whistling in the air.
He twisted, flipping around in midair and preparing his blade.
The Cloudwalker’s blades slammed into his greatsword, a strong gust pushing them.
Surge cried out, twisting in the air as he knocked the flying blades to the ground. He landed on his feet, sending out a pulse of lightning to steady himself. He was still several yards away from the Cloudwalker, who was raising his hands for another phantom push of his swords.
Surge readied himself.
One of the Cloudwalker’s blades flipped around, the blade twisting toward the Cloudwalker.
The sword zipped forward, pushed by an invisible wind. It stabbed the Cloudwalker in the throat, effectively killing him.
Surge spun around.
Reluraun stood behind him, his hands still raised, a grim frown on his face. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, turning to face the armies below.
