Malin – Negotiations #3
Two dozen figures materialized out of the darkness, armed for a slaughter. They wielded a brutal assortment of weapons, carrying everything from modern mag-pistols to heavy short swords and curved daggers that caught the flickering torchlight with a sickening gleam.
The intruders bellowed a synchronized war cry that Malin could not understand, but the sheer ferocity of the sound provoked immediate, terrified screams from the seated Fellspire leaders.
Malin reached for her magic, but nothing happened. Her amulet was in place. Quickly, she pocketed it, feeling the pure heat surge through her veins.
Pushing herself upward, Malin levitated high above the fray to reach the billowing canvas ceiling.
High above the slaughter, panic gripped her heart.
She frantically scanned the perimeter, searching for Will.
Relief washed over her when she found him at the very edge of the tent by the entrance, holding his own in a fierce, grueling battle against two-armed men.
Knowing he could handle himself, she forced her attention back to the wider room.
Looking down over the battlefield, the true nature of the ambush became crystal clear.
This was no blind slaughter. The attackers completely ignored most of the room to converge on specific delegates.
She cursed her lack of knowledge regarding Fellspire politics, entirely unable to guess their motive.
Shoving the political puzzle aside, she shifted her focus back to the immediate threat: keeping the defenseless alive.
She sent a white-hot stream of fire toward two assassins closing in on a diplomat.
Their bodies twisted grotesquely as they melted, screams cut short.
The acrid stench made her stomach heave.
Above her, the tent’s fabric began to smolder, and Malin cursed, extinguishing her flames.
She dropped back toward Aeladar, who stood rigid in a protective triangle with Jacien, Nar, and Khelek, with their backs to each other.
They moved together like dancers in a deadly ballet: Darik’s suffocating shadows, her father’s precise fire, Malin’s aerial assault, Jacien’s flashing blades, Nar’s Elven flames, and Khelek’s biting ice.
It took mere minutes to completely eradicate the over three dozen armed assailants.
By the time the Fellspire guards finally burst through the main entrance with their weapons drawn, they found only a graveyard.
The attack didn’t last long, but what took the guards so long to come to their aid?
Staring wide-eyed, survivors remained cowering beneath tables, while others rose shakily to their feet.
Darik smoothly brushed an invisible speck of ash from his sleeve and turned to Aeladar with a sardonic smile.
“Well,” he drawled loudly for the room to hear.
“I suppose this explains why Mellyrn didn’t feel the need to bring additional guards.
Quite the impressive display, and it highlights why the Syndodate would benefit from negotiations with your Kingdom. ”
Malin ignored the political theater, her heart hammering against her ribs like a war drum.
Golden light bloomed from her fingertips as she dropped beside a man with a severe gash across his face.
The wound knitted closed instantly under her touch.
Moving quickly, she found a woman clutching a deeply punctured shoulder.
The moment Malin’s hands pressed against the wet, ruined flesh, her siphon magic violently reared its head.
It tasted the woman’s fading life force and hungered for it.
Malin gasped, biting her lip hard enough to draw her own blood as she brutally caged the dark urge to drain.
She forced her golden healing light to the surface instead.
It was an agonizing mental war, but her concentration held the darkness at bay.
The woman’s amber eyes widened in awe as Malin’s magic seeped into the torn flesh, rapidly mending severed vessels and sinew. The chorus of pained moans guided Malin through the blood-soaked chaos until a high-pitched wail drew her attention to the din near the dais.
Malin sprinted toward the wail. The Archon lay crumpled on the floor like discarded parchment, surrounded by panicked Fellspire mages entirely failing to stabilize him. She forcefully shoved her way through the tight circle.
The Archon was barely holding on. A catastrophic mag-pistol blast had torn through his chest, blooming crimson across his ivory robes.
She wanted to at least try to save him. Pushing forward, her hands already glowing with radiant golden magic, she reached out to combine her power with the mages’ weak blue light.
“We cannot have an outsider touching our Supreme Leader,” a thin mage with a curly mustache snapped.
Malin shot him a withering glare, pausing only to receive a curt nod of approval from Darik.
Dropping to her knees, Malin pressed her hands to the Archon’s chest. The sharp copper scent of blood filled her nostrils as a cascade of molten sunlight poured from her palms, illuminating the tent’s canvas.
His papery eyelids fluttered, revealing clouded eyes that fixed on empty space.
Beneath her glowing hands, his heartbeat stuttered, skipped, and then ceased altogether.
Finding nothing left to sustain, her golden magic dissipated into the air like morning mist.
Silence spread outward from the dais like ripples in still water. Worried conversations died mid-syllable as the grim reality dawned on the assembly.
At the front of the tent, three Mages, their robes swirled in eddies of violet light, lifting the Archon’s body without touching it.
He hovered like a broken puppet, limbs limp, lips blue.
A hush rippled through the advisors, and soldiers gathered around.
Calls began to ring from the Fellspire leadership to stop the negotiations.
Darik reached out his hand to help her to her feet.
As she stood, she stated, “If this negotiation ends because your side decided to leave, I still get the device.”
Darik murmured something under his breath, then stepped to the edge of the dais. He raised his hands, commanding the chaotic murmur of the tent into absolute silence.
His voice carried with practiced precision; every syllable polished to a gleam. “Today we witness the desperate violence of those who do not realize the opportunity we have before us,” he proclaimed to the stunned survivors.
“These rebels are likely slaves, demonstrating the lengths they will go to for freedom. Perhaps we can build the beginnings of hope for them and discourage future attacks.” His fingers brushed the dead Archon’s sleeve with a theatrical, sickening reverence.
“Perhaps now the Synodate will recognize that these agreements offer Fellspire a path toward necessary evolution. This is a measured approach to addressing the labor question, serving the betterment of all our people.”
“As shaken as we all are,” his voice rang out, filling the massive tent, “this is our crucible. The Archon’s fall is tragic, but we cannot allow his final historic effort to collapse.
We must seize it. We must draft the treaty now, before our momentum falters.
We must show the rebels that they cannot halt our progress. ”
He stood tall, executing purposeful, controlled gestures that anchored the panicked room. His eyes glittered with political fervor. Around him, a ripple of agreement rose from the crowd in the form of grim nods, clenched fists, and quiet vows of loyalty.
Watching him, Malin swallowed the bitter taste of bile. His words flowed entirely too smoothly. His grief was perfectly calibrated. It was exactly like watching an actor deliver rehearsed lines.
She took in a deep breath, mixed with relief that they could continue, and exhaustion that it must.
The sensation overwhelmed her with the roar of voices around her.
So many people. So much power, and her siphon power was hungry after all the energy she expended in the fight.
She quickly returned the amulet to her neck, feeling the quiet of the loss of magic.
Without her magic, the chill in the air rushed back, cutting through the magical warmers of the tent.
She let her eyes flick over the crowd, searching for Will.
Was he safe?
Walking toward her, his dark cloak pulled tight around his broad shoulders, with one hand resting on his blade at his waist. Relief flushed her cheeks. He caught her eye. She needed his strength right now.