Night was still. Ava battled the Holy Land warriors, her sword afire with an angry, white light. She sliced through the ranks of attackers, each stroke a burst of blinding light, her lungs pumping hard and fast. The villagers battled with her, their screams filling the black woods. Blood splattered, steel on meat a wet, sickening sound. And lastly, they burst through into lines and ran into the dark,shadowed entrance of a cave, the damp air of it sticky on their wet skin.
There was anarchy in Maranaqua. Massive golems strode through the village, their feet shattering houses and lives asunder. Zoe gripped Owen's arm, dragging him through the shattering streets, her heart a demented, frantic drum. Gabriel's body burned again, his veins burning with an otherworldly light. He slammed the ankle of a golem, his fists shattering its stone joints, sending it crashing back, its head shattering through a tower nearby.
King Marcus strode through the crooked corridors of his castle, his thoughts a tempest of anger and sorrow. He discovered a secret room, its iron doors closed with the sigils of his forebears. He shoved them apart, the heavy stone groaning on the floor. There, in the center of the floor, heaped his own ancient sword—a massive blade, whose edges were feathered with wings of steel, a flashing blue gemstone set in its hilt. He raised it in his hands, the dense weight of it, the strength vibrating through very marrow. He moved back into light, his voice a clap of thunder as he bellowed, "Attack, my warriors!"
The knights charged, swords glinting, shields crashing into the golem's repulsive limbs. Villagers ran, some cut down in their panic, others buried under the crashing debris. King Marcus swung his huge sword, the wings on the hilt burning with fire, cutting through a golem's leg as if it were timber. It broke, the boulder-like pieces falling like sharded hail. The fight continued, the earth under their feet shaking with each colossal step.
And as this, Margo drifted on her little boat, caught sight of land out of the black. The Holy Land. The title had held out innocence and shelter, its far shores shining in the searing flash of far lightning. She rowed toward it, her arms afire, her gasps choppy, the waves tossing her little boat. She reached the dock and ascended the slick planks. She cried to a cluster of figures in the mist, and they did not respond, their faces empty, their limbs lifeless, their movement mechanical. She trailed after their stiff, jerky silhouettes, her tread resounding along the stone walkway to the scorched, tower-crowned fortress. Clouds churned overhead, seething with white-scalding wisps of lightning.
Within the castle, Sally sat upon the black throne, her hands around the core, its veins squirming beneath her fingers. She could feel the kiss of Gabriel and Margo as a warmth on her skin, her lips curving into a sadistic smile. She turned the core tighter, the veins throbbing, her own heart pounding in sympathy with the wrenching twist of the world's fabric. She flung back her hair, the dark locks rippling, curling over her ears as two horns of black obsidian burst forth from her skull, their points shining brightly in the throne room light. She rested back her head and laughed, her voice a shatter of glass and rumble of thunder.
When Margo approached the castle gates, figures in the dark shadow crept vacant eyes towards her, their limbs squealing as they moved in. Far in the depths of her mind, Sally's eyes blazed with consciousness. She ordered her thralls in a hissing serpent voice, "Bring her to me."
In Simbaku, meanwhile, the morning light crawled over the horizon. Margarette emerged again among the destruction, her body wafting down from the trees, borne on a whirlwind of rose petals. She floated, arms wide, eyes aflame with an elder, eldritch power. Intentional flowers and sharp thorns burst from her extended hands, shooting through the air like shots of living steel, piercing the golems' rock-hard forms.
With a slow, careful movement, she leaned forward and pointed at the nearest golem, her finger clenched, her breath blown over the vines that bound her in place. The vast creature groaned, its rock-like body creaking, shuddering, then gradually compressing, its gargantuan body twisting, curling, contracting into a ball of fossilized muscle and broken stone. Golden strands, so named by King Vesh, curled around the ball, holding it fast, rolling it back towards the flood, where it plunged into the churning waters with a resounding, echoing splash.
King Vesh advanced, his armor shining in the rising sun, his chest laboring. He bowed to Margarette, his grateful but strained voice. "Thank you, Keeper of Nature. You have saved us this day."
Margarette, still suspended over her spinning petals, nodded gravely, her eyes sweeping over the smoldering, broken remnants of the former great village. "This war is only just beginning."
Back in the Holy Land, Margo moved carefully along the crooked, cobblestone streets, her eyes sweeping every shadow, every glint of movement. She felt it—a hundred unseen eyes on her, whispers through the broken walls like spectral fingers. She clutched the Death Blade Queen Hanna had provided her more tightly, the chill metal thudding in her hand, slavering for the flow of blood.
A negligent rustle behind her. She wheeled, the sword cutting the thick air, catching sunlight in a silver curve of light. A knight stumbled backward, his hands grasping at the shredded gash across his throat, his eyes bulging, gurgling, his knees folding on the stone with a greasy snap. Another charged in from her left, his armor crashing, his eyes empty and unforgiving—controlled. She danced low, cutting across his thigh, her steps fluid, like a breath of shadow. He fell, blood running around his iron boots.
More knights issued from the alleys, their faces empty, their movements stiff and jerky. She dodged, parried, the Death Blade hum through her fingers, its dark metal slicing through steel and flesh alike. But they never slowed, their ranks seeming to have no end, their power horrifying. One knight swung at her from behind, his gauntlet slamming into her ribs, expelling air from her lungs. She reeled, her vision blurring, pain seeping through her side like a cold frost.
She flailed wildly, striking another in the face, but a sword cut past her guard, into her shoulder. She fell, her black, hot blood bubbling down her arm. The knights rushed forward, steel clashing, fists clenched, and she was pulled to cold stone floor, her Death Blade spinning from her hand, its ring a sour, dying note.
She woke to the damp, chilly air of the castle dungeon, dripping walls, the air heavy with the smell of blood and mold. Chains dug into her wrists, her arms extended above her head, her feet inches off the ground. She moaned, a concerto of agony her body, her head throbbing, eyes gradually coming into focus to see the massive, shadow-shrouded figure of Sally on her throne, eyes burning with a wicked, knowing red.
"Well, well," the voice sliced through darkness, cold and dripping with sarcasm, "look who strayed too far from the sacred mountain of Samana."
Margo ground her teeth, fighting the chains, her breath in harsh gasps, her body shuddering. Sally stepped down from her throne, her skirt flowing like a snake's tail, her bare feet rustling on the floor. She walked around Margo, her eyes never leaving her face, her smile a thin cruel curve.
"A little human
faking warrior, Sally sneered, leaning up to slide a cold finger along Margo's jaw. "Hanna taught you well, didn't she? Taught you to fight, to kill. but did she teach you to fear?"
Margo spat, her blood-streaked lips twisting. "I'm not afraid of you."
Sally's eyes grew narrow, her face contorting into a rage mask. She clicked her fingers, and the knights behind Margo moved forward, their gloved hands on her shoulders, their cold breath on her neck.
"Spin her around," Sally ordered, her voice ringing through the empty, stone room. They complied, spinning Margo roughly, chains clanking, knees against stone. She shivered at the cold of the air on her bare back, her ripped clothing hanging in bloody tatters.
Sally leaned in, her warm, sick breath against Margo's ear. She reached up, her hand in Margo's hair, pulling her head back, her hard nails in her scalp.
"You belong to them now," Sally panted, her voice heavy with sadistic pleasure. She pulled out the Death Blade from Margo's fallen scabbard, its black metal glinting, still warm from battle. She pressed it against Margo's back, the blade humming, vibrating with evil power.
Margo gasped, her spine stiffening, teeth clenched hard, the knife cutting into flesh, burning, searing, metal telling her shame to her bone. Sally tightened the knife, cutting deep, each cut precise and cruel, each line an exorcism.
"Goblin," Sally spat, drawing the knife down Margo's spine, the word biting deep, blood flowing in thick, black rivulets. Margo screamed, her body jerking against the chains, her cries echoing in the chamber, her mind a splintering, shattered thing of pain and fury.
Sally backed away, satisfied with herself, the Death Blade still smeared with Margo's blood. She smiled, dropping the blade, its clatter drowned in the echoes of Margo's dying screams.
"Now," Sally purred, her eyes aglow, her voice a warped, satisfied purr, "you'll know who you really are."