Victor of Tucson-Chapter 54Book 6: : Tests of Heart

Lam felt the icy, numbing grip of Victoria’s misty tendril begin to pull the Energy from her Core, and she raged against it. She fought the pull with everything in her, desperately struggling to keep the Death Caster from overwhelming her with her insidious will. She pulled and thrashed, willing her Energy to stay in her pathways, knowing the mist would pull it from her if she cast a spell. In her struggles, she caught a glimpse of Edeya lying insensate, devoid of color, by her feet. Even her wings had lost their azure luster, and there were no beautiful motes of blue Energy anywhere in their transparent, fragile membranes.

The tent was in shambles, half collapsed, many of the furnishings blown out, through or under the fabric by her explosive attack. She might have gotten herself caught, but at least she’d knocked Edeya from that vile bitch’s misty clutches. The other one, the tall, demonic woman, regarded her thrashing, watching as Victoria worked to subdue her. “You waste time, Catalina,” she hissed in a voice that sounded like a chorus of shrieking children. “Shall I take my due?” She reached a long arm, tipped in needle-sharp black claws, toward Lam. Her voice brought tears to Lam’s eyes, and she thrashed and struggled more, fighting with everything she had to keep her Energy in her Core, resisting the insidious pull of the mist.

“She’s mine!” Victoria hissed. Lam fought hard, barely able to wonder if she’d heard the demon right—was her name really Catalina? Where had she heard it before? “Long have I lusted for her golden Energy. Long has she tormented me with her vibrance. Come, sweet, relax, and succumb to my embrace. I’ll always keep a part of you alive within me.”

“Foolish child,” the beautiful, horrible woman said. “Do you not hear the commotion? Finish your meal quickly, then. I will begin my own feast.” She stood tall, lifting her skeletally thin arm high, pushing the lopsided canvas of the tent away from her as she turned away and began to work free of the failing structure. Lam grunted, sweat streaming down her brow, dripping from her chin, as she was held motionless. Her sweat was proof of her efforts, for it was frigidly cold in the tent surrounded by the Death Caster’s mist. The tall, demonic woman only took two steps before, in a gust of cleansing air, the entire tent was ripped away from the ground, lifted into the air by the fluttering ochre wings of several Naghelli.

Like a snake striking from its hole, the naked woman leaped into the air, wrapping her long arms around one of the Naghelli, bearing her to the ground, and biting into her neck. The Naghelli didn’t even have time to cry out as the demon drank her life force and Energy. A crowd of soldiers and other Naghelli fell on her, but Lam lost sight of the mad melee that ensued as Catalina redoubled her efforts, squeezing with her mist and jerking her left and right. “Succumb, fairy woman! Succumb!”

“And why should she, witch?” Suddenly, Kethelket was there, dancing through the freezing tendrils that made up Catalina’s misty body, slashing his two named swords left and right, shredding the misty arms, eliciting screams of pain and outrage from the Death Caster. Lam felt the grip on her neck loosen and fall away, felt herself falling to the ground, and she caught herself, dropping into a squat. She snatched up her fallen hammer, spared Edeya’s insensate form a single worrying glance, and then leaped into action, bright, golden Energy exploding through her pathways.

Kethelket had driven Catalina back, forcing her to pull her misty tendrils in, solidifying herself further so she might have a chance to parry those wicked twin blades. She moved with unbelievable speed, surging left and right, forward and back, up and down. Kethelket was more than a match with his shadowy Energy. He drove her back, further and further away. Lam followed their duel, and, seeing a pattern, she brought down a hammer strike directly where Catalina next retreated. The Energy poured out of her Core as she gave it everything she had, and a massive, dense hammer-shaped construct fell from the heavens, spinning as a thrown warhammer might, and smashing into Catalina, driving her to the turf in a ground-shaking impact.

Kethelket, in a blur of shadows, darted into the spray of dirt, fog, and shattered camp equipment, his blades flashing in brilliant arcs, ripping the now-physical form of the Death Caster to shreds. Lam heard her wails, ear-piercing, horrible sounds that threatened to render anyone nearby deaf. She clapped her hands to her ears, her hammer falling to the ground, and stumbled over to Edeya. Chaos had erupted around her—soldiers screamed, magical attacks exploded everywhere, wild, rainbow lights flashed in the night sky, and the thunder of thousands of feet pounding the ground rumbled under her knees as she fell beside her friend’s pitiful figure.

“Edeya!” she cried, “Edeya!” She gripped her face, shivering at the chill of the flesh. Was she too late? Was she dead? Tears burst from her eyes, running down her cheeks as a sob of impotent rage and despair constricted her throat. Why hadn’t she checked on her just a little sooner? Desperately, she summoned a healing drought from her ring and tipped it into Edeya’s colorless lips. The liquid pooled against her teeth, running from the corners of her mouth. Lam pulled at her chin, letting the potion into her mouth, but nothing seemed to happen.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed over her, and she looked up to see the dark Naghelli Prince. “The witch didn’t die. With my third eye, I saw her tether pulsing with her death Energy. She must have a phylactery up on yonder mount.”

Lam was too stupefied by her grief, too stunned with guilt to register his words. She hugged Edeya’s cold body to her chest, lifting her limp, too-light form from the soil and hugging her tightly. Had she really loved the girl so much? The answer was in the stuttering skips of her heart and her desire to stop breathing. If Edeya had fled this world, then what was the point of anything? What was the point of all the wealth she’d built, all the battles she’d won? What was the point of founding a new country away from the Ridonne nobility when she had no one to love, no one with whom to share it?

Through the blur of her tears, she saw the shadow, Kethelket, loom closer, and he said, with an urgent note in his voice. “Her wings!” Lam sniffed and blinked her eyes, clearing them enough to look down at Edeya’s limp, colorless wings, and, as fresh waves of despair threatened to constrict her throat further, she saw, briefly, a tiny flicker of sapphire light. It was so dim and fleeting that she doubted herself, wondering if it had been a trick of the light. As she stared, though, another flickered in a different spot, gone before she could focus on it. Kethelket straightened, already turning away. “She yet lives, though barely. Get her to a safe place—I must face the demon that wreaks havoc among the troops. Make haste! Enemy soldiers assault the walls. See if Victor has yet emerged from his home!”

#

Lesh sat in his hiding spot among the hills, watching the camp below. Many nights had he followed Victor’s army through the fair, soft lands they sought to conquer. Many nights had he contemplated showing himself, asking about their giant hero, about his uncanny ability to breathe fire and his unstoppable physical might. He’d seen him conquer enemy after enemy, seen him descend into depths swarming with powerful undead, only to come up days later, unscathed. Lesh had abandoned his quest from the System and, along with it, any thoughts of returning home. How could he face the War Council in Garspire? How could he face his father? How could he face Yassa?

That last hurt the most. While the others pained his pride, the loss of Yassa crushed his heart. Nevertheless, his decision had been made. On that fateful night when he’d seen the titan-blood breathe fire that would be the envy of an elder drake, he’d known—Victor was not a man he would kill but a man he would follow. Was it fear? Was it inspiration? Lesh wasn’t sure, and to claim one or the other would be dishonest. Regardless, he refused to entertain the idea of challenging that man who’d done nothing to impugn his honor, threaten his home, or lay claim to his freedom—he wouldn’t let the System twist his hunger for power into something dishonorable. So, he’d bided his time, watching, waiting, seeking the right opportunity to approach.

He wanted to speak, to sound out his thoughts as he often did while alone. He was quiet, though, knowing the titan’s dark-winged watchers were out there, seeking any danger to their camp. It seemed they were preparing to begin their assault on the undead stronghold. Shouldn’t he approach before then? Shouldn’t he give his aid here before it was too late, before it was over, and he came scrounging around like a carrion hound to the slaughter? Not in the dark, however. No, he’d approach with the dawn’s light, offering his services to break the defenses of those high keeps.

Would the titan even want him? He’d grown more and more powerful, and so had his mate. Elder wyrms! Lesh shook his head, remembering her shimmering wings and impressive figure as he’d watched the two ride into camp. She was no Yassa, but she was something special. Well, Lesh might not be ready or willing to challenge Victor, but he was mighty in his own right. He’d make a good case for himself, and when the time came to assault those walls, he and Belagog would make a name for themselves among these people.

Lesh’s inner dialogue grew silent as he saw something strange on the hillside. His yellow-tinted sight made short work of the darkness, piercing even the dense layers of life-draining mist clinging to the hills. He looked for the dark-winged watchers sent by Victor’s general into the slopes. Their wings had patterns of Energy that stood out like beacons, burning silver-white in his enhanced vision. It made them easy for him to avoid, and Lesh made it a habit to mark their locations each night, drawing a mental map of his surroundings. Something new had happened just now, though. Those watchers in the hills had disappeared; the glow of their wings winking out had drawn his attention.

He stood, still hooded in his obscuring cloak, and peered, sending a touch of Energy into his pathways, enhancing his vision further, into the distant hills, staring at the spot where he’d last seen the scouts. He almost missed it, taking the movement as mist shifting on the wind, but then he looked closer and saw that, clinging to the shadows and fog, a line of pale, feral undead creatures were creeping down from the heights. He followed their line upward, catching glimpses of their column in gaps between hills, slipping through groves of gnarled trees and dropping down sheer rock faces. When his eyes finally came to rest on their source, a bend in the high cliffside above which roared the mighty falls, Lesh knew the truth—there was a tunnel behind those waters, and it was spilling forth thousands of the creatures.

Lesh threw back his hood and picked up Belagog. “It’s time we made an appearance, brother.”

#

Victor could feel the fury of the volcano beneath him. The ground rumbled, the air grew warm, and Hector’s deathly mist had been almost wholly cooked out of the caldera. All he’d been doing was pulling on that hot magma-attuned Energy, drawing it into his breath Core, compressing and packing it in until it grew too full to contain, and boom, his breath Core expanded, gaining a new rank, making room for more and more Energy. He could tell he was on the brink of another gain, another expansion of his breath Core as his lungs filled to bursting with air, and he sucked in those hot, potent vapors, driving them into the swirling ball of magma in his chest with every ounce of his will.

Like a damn breaking, his Core expanded, and he felt a flare of heat course through his body—he was veritably glowing with the Energy by now.

***Congratulations! You have learned a new skill: Breath Core Cultivation Drill – Improved.***

***Congratulations! Your breath Core has advanced: Base 9.***

He couldn’t believe how quickly he was making gains. It felt like he’d only been at it for minutes, but he knew it had to be longer than that. As he started another cycle, impressed by how much more Energy he could pull using the improved cultivation drill, he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Was there a faster way out of the caldera? Could he destroy this trap with the flames in his Core? He’d seen how quickly the trap had drained him; it might not be able to contain the Energy coming from the volcano, but wouldn’t it be able to suck away his measly nine hundred points of breath Energy?

And then what? If he drained himself again and left his body with no Energy, how long would he wallow before he began to recover? How much time would he lose trying to fight for a simple thought or to move his Energy-starved body? No, his breath Core was fueling him, a titanic form grown powerful and accustomed to twenty times that much Energy. He was thinking; he was doing something; he couldn’t risk that by blowing off his painstakingly gained progress.

He funneled another deep breath of hot Energy into his Core and heard and felt the burning magma furnace beneath him ever more intimately. It was waking. Its anger was stoking. Victor didn’t know what would happen if he could get the magma to start flowing or even go so far as to make the volcano erupt. If it happened here, on the Spirit Plane, would it be echoed on the Material Plane? Would he destroy Hector’s army? Would he kill the Glorious Ninth? Victor shook the worry from his mind—he had to do something, or he’d be trapped here forever, and right now, waking the magma beneath him felt right.

“Come on! One more!” he growled, pulling in another massive lungful of hot, smoky air. He didn’t know what would happen when he pushed his breath Core out of the “base” levels, but he hoped it would be more than a simple hundred-point boost. He didn’t have an attribute that improved his breath Energy like will and intelligence did for his spirit Core, so he did the only thing he knew how—he gathered the rich, powerful magma-attuned Energy from the volcano and he packed it in, folding, layering, compressing it with his will, building that breath Core up. He watched as the red-orange fury of it grew brighter, orange-yellow, yellow, yellow-white—pulsing, throbbing, straining. “Just a little more!” he growled, inhaling, compressing, expanding his lungs until they hurt.

He was making a draft, a vacuum almost, prodding the hot Energy to flow quicker and quicker up from the depths. The veil stars were still there, throbbing their green light at him, but he felt them less and less. The volcano’s Energy was overwhelming them. Could that bastard, Hector, feel what he was doing? Was he worried? “Or is that pendejo too busy killing my friends?”

The thought came to him on a wave of red fury, and Victor realized his vision was tinted slightly red as he pulled another massive breath of magma-attuned, hot air into his lungs. As he packed the Energy into his breath Core, he turned his gaze to his spirit Core, hoping to see his rage recovering, but it was still dim, still flickering with wisps of Energy that faded as soon as they formed. Where was this rage coming from? The ground rumbled beneath him, and his chest answered with a rumbled growl of his own. “You’re pissed off, eh, hermano? Me too!”

As he finished compressing the last of his current magma Energy haul, Victor leaped to his feet and shouted into the smoky, green-tinted darkness, “Come on, brother! Wake up and fuck this shit up!” Victor could feel it in his bones, in his blood, in his flesh—the heat of his magma Core was boiling over, ready to burst, and it had deep echoes of rage in it. Could he use it like rage? Could he turn his breath Core inward? As he contemplated, he automatically started another cycle of his breath Core cultivation drill. He pumped his lungs like a bellows, expanding, contracting, expanding, siphoning the magma-attuned Energy from the hot air he brought in and exhaling vast plumes of smoke.

The heat in his chest intensified. His Core, a ball of white-hot, compressed magma, was ready to blow, the pressure so intense that it dwarfed the last few expansions he’d managed. He was certain something momentous was going to happen when he broke through. It almost felt like it would destroy him. If his other Core was full, rich with Energy, he might not feel the expansion of his magma Core so acutely, but as it was, it felt like he was building a bomb in his chest.

With each cycle of his drill, the Energy in the air grew thicker. The heat grew more sweltering. The smoke obscured more and more of the sickly green light. He felt the ground rumbling, felt the torrents of magma-attuned Energy swirling up out of the lava tubes. “Come on!” he screamed and began another cycle. The Energy flew into him, almost more fire than air as he sucked it in. It was so thick and dense with power that it took him longer to pack it into his Core than it did to process the breath.

As he compressed the air in his lungs, bearing down with all his might, forcing the Energy into his Core, he stood there, red-faced, body clenched in a mad, tight-fisted pose. When he finally broke through, advancing his Core to the next tier, he exhaled with a ground-shaking roar, and a plume of fire exploded out of his mouth.

#

Valla found her rhythm fighting among the hairless, naked, savage ghouls. She danced among them cloaked in lightning-laced wind, her wings adding a new dimension to her fighting that made her death-incarnate to the feral creatures. She whirled, dashed, and leaped, her wings cracking the air to grant her more speed, manipulating the elemental magic of her Core, lashing out with lightning and iron-charged Energy, knocking aside slashing claws and ripping through pale flesh.

Midnight was like a bolt of lightning held tight in her fist, exploding through the air, shattering pale bodies, cracking against skulls, claws, and bones with claps of thunder that stunned her opponents. When she felt they were crowding too thickly, she’d flex her mighty wings and jump, soaring above their heads, only to come down riding the wind like an angelic avalanche of lightning and metal. Her silky white gown was torn, soaked in blood, but not her own. It flowed on the wind, presenting itself as a target for claws, but as the foolish undead sought to swipe at it, Valla cut them apart with her deadly blade.

She was fighting outside the northern gate, serving as a magnet for the hordes of monsters making their way out of the hills. There were thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands, but she couldn’t be bothered to count, couldn’t be bothered to care. She was busy dancing and killing, slaughtering them by the hundreds. Her distraction had given the defenders on the ramparts time to retake their ground, to hurl the vicious undead out of the camp. Now, they were raining death upon the incoming horde. Lightning, fireballs, arrows, stones—any kind of missile you could imagine—fell from the air, slaughtering the monsters wholesale.

In the back of her mind, Valla wondered where Victor was, where Kethelket was. Why was she the lone hero, holding back the horde, giving the army time to mount their defense? She shook her head at the thought, angry with herself—she wasn’t alone. The heroes of the Ninth were all over the wall, performing feats that would humble the decorated champions of the Ridonne Empire. She was doing fine; the mountains of dead around here were a testament to that. They could win, they could . . .

A horrible shriek shook the night, echoing through the darkness, stunning everyone, even the undead, into stillness for a heartbeat. Valla tracked the sound, looking into the sky, and that glimmer of hope, that flicker of confidence, began to fall apart in her heart. A skeletal nightmare soared through the darkness, descending toward the encampment. It looked like a wyrm, a hundred times the size of Guapo, with skeletal wings pumping the air, catching the wind with membranes of sickly green magic. Worse, atop its head, perched between two massive horns, rode a black-robed demon of a man wielding an enormous spear and wearing a crown of red lightning.freew(e)bnove(l)

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