Chapter Six
Helspira
HELSPIRA’S EARDRUMS throbbed from the countless voices of Red Sentinels gathered in the armory. Through the windows, through the smoke, they had confirmed the presence of a small, undead army accompanied by living soldiers. Vessik’s influence had spread to Vinepool, no doubt about it.
Some units had already donned their armor, gathered their weapons, and bolted into the fray outside.
Banneret Rowan did not move as hastily; a hushed conversation shared between him and Queen Saelihn had delayed him.
Helspira tried in vain to hear them over the chaos of readying soldiers.
She managed to decipher bits and pieces.
Rowan questioned Catseye’s usefulness, begged the queen not to saddle him with ‘that hopeless necromancer.’
Queen Saelihn said something about not making the same mistake he had made in the Grand Hall.
Everything became harder to hear after that, lost to rattling chainmail and clanking metal.
Delayed compliance dulled Rowan’s voice, and Helspira heard him relent with a defeated, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Good,” the queen said, nostrils flaring. “Swiftly now, my people need aid.”
Helspira watched the queen scurry up the stairs, presumably to gather the remaining staff and take cover.
She gripped the hilt of her sword and steeled herself.
This wasn’t the first time she had faced off with Vessik’s undead since joining the Red Sentinel.
They had been relatively easy to suppress in the past, and she had survived far worse skirmishes in Chthonia, but the energy in the room left an unsettling feeling in her stomach.
Catseye’s voice belied the stark contrast to the frenzy, too calm and detached given the situation.
“Look, people,” he said, skulking about the room with his hands behind his back, “I know time is of the essence, but would someone get Benjamin here an R.S. scarf?”
A mouthful of saliva hit the floor as Rowan spat and forced his way toward Catseye. “Those are for Red Sentinels only.”
“Oh, Rowan. Rowan, Rowan, Rowan.” Catseye patted the banneret’s cheek. “There’s an undead army outside. There will be no short supply of skeletons on the battlefield. Much as it pains me to say, it’s near impossible to differentiate one from another.”
“Touch my face again”—Rowan swatted away Catseye’s arm—“and you’ll be short one hand. If I know anything about casters, you need both to gesticulate your spells, so you’ll be even more useless than usual.”
Helspira winced when Catseye’s cheerful laugh shifted into a madman’s grave chuckle.
Though Rowan towered over him by at least six inches, Catseye faced him with no hesitation.
“Should you make the mistake of bringing any harm to Benjamin in all the mayhem, I guarantee you will beg for the mercy of an explosive to rend your limbs from your torso. Random carnage will be far more charitable than the very intentional carnage brought by me.”
Locked in what looked like an aggressive staring contest, Rowan grinded his teeth, glanced in the direction Queen Saelihn had departed, and turned away in a huff. “Someone get this damned skeleton a scarf.”
“Here, Ben.” Elbowing her way through the crowd, Helspira unraveled her scarf and wrapped it around his neck. “You can have mine. I’ll find another.”
Ben favored her with a grateful bow. “Thank you. Perhaps you can help me find a longsword as well?”
“You intend to fight?” she asked.
“I must. Red Sentinel in life and death. Besides, I’m Sikras’s human shield.” Ben cupped a hand around his mouth and whispered, “He’s a bit delicate. More of a long-distance-combat kind of guy.”
Smothering an amused smirk, Helspira searched the walls, until she zeroed in on an extra scarf and a longsword no one had yet to claim. She removed both and proffered the sword to Ben as she draped the scarf over her shoulder. “Will this do?”
Skeletal hands seized the handle, appearing rather adept, as he tested the blade’s weight with several practiced poses. “I’ve yet to meet a piece of steel I couldn’t ram through a man’s sternum.”
“As long as we’re discussing steel through sternums, you’d better take this as well.” Helspira burdened his arms with a cuirass, inclining her chin toward the stone and thread between his ribs. “Something tells me you’ll want to keep that safe.”
“I do, indeed,” he agreed with a nod. “Out of all the things I’ve done in my life, dying is the least fun.”
As Ben suited up, Catseye stepped closer. “Well, look at you, Sentinel Champion Benjamin Reese. It’s just like old—”
The unforgiving weight of chainmail hurled onto Catseye’s shoulder halted his sentence, an unexpected ‘gift’ from Banneret Rowan. Catseye cursed, nearly buckling at the knees, whilst the banneret wore a smug grin.
Grunting, Catseye let the armor clatter to the floor in a cacophony of clinking metal. “Blood and bone, Rowan.” He dusted off his shoulders, glaring. “What in the name of all gods was that for?”
“Chainmail,” the banneret muttered. “Queen Saelihn wants you alive.”
“Keeping me alive is Benjamin’s job.”
“Eh—” Uncertainty tainted Ben’s tone as he fastened a buckle. “Maybe you should take the chainmail. I didn’t exactly do a good job at keeping you alive the last time we faced Vessik.”
“You did a fine job. I only died once.” Catseye sighed as he bent to retrieve the chainmail. “But if it pleases you, I’ll endure it.”
An undeniable tension flickered between the three men. Concern tightened Helspira’s lips. So long as these petty games did not extend to the battlefield, she would tolerate them. And even if they did ...
Nothing would stop her from defending Vinepool, the queen, the kingdom, her home, until her dying breath.
The next moments were a blur. Adrenaline and efficiency had the remaining Red Sentinels ready in seconds, no less than fifty men and women marching up the armory steps and out the castle doors.
Somewhere in the smoke-filled air outside, more sentinels waged war against their invaders, the clash of metal-on-metal mingling with distant screams of pain and terror.
Banneret Rowan stood at the head, Catseye at his side. “Well”—the banneret gestured outward, cynical as ever—“lead the way, all-mighty necromancer.”
“No, no.” The stench of charred flesh marred the air as Catseye matched Banneret Rowan’s pose. “After you.”
Bearing an arrogant grin, the banneret crossed his arms. “Oh? Is the Glowing Cat’s Eye in Death’s Darkness afraid to lead this charge?”
“Do I look like a front linesman?” Catseye muttered. “I’m a caster, Rowan. A stiff breeze could knock me over.”
“To be honest,” Ben chimed in, “it’s a miracle that he can still walk, with all that chain mail you weighed him down with.”
Helspira rolled her eyes. “Oh, for the love of—” Without word nor permission, she charged ahead, sword drawn.
There was no time for their nonsense. If she didn’t act fast, the enemy would infiltrate farther.
That wasn’t an option. Not when the almshouse and her parents’ lives stood in the path of their destruction.
Racing forward felt like slow motion. She spied a man in the chaos, rusty sword in hand. Friend or foe? Only seconds to decide.
Eviscerate him.
Her demonic impulse craved death as always. It was rare for Helspira to agree, but when the man advanced on a shrieking woman who shielded a small child with her arms, she knew he needed to die.
She took no pleasure in death. She had seen too much of it in Chthonia. Senseless slaughter atop senseless slaughter. But if demons were fated to be instruments of annihilation, she would at least direct it at those who threatened her peace. And she would do it in the most-human way possible.
After all, blades were far less horrifying than true demonic rage.
Leaping between townsfolk and target, Helspira’s sword met flesh. From stomach to spine, her steel felled her mark. The man’s blood barely hit the cobblestones before she flourished and severed the legs of two undead assailants with one sweeping swing.
“Damn, Hels, save some for me,” came Ben’s disembodied voice as he plunged his sword into another assailant’s chest. “It’s been four years, you know. I’m a bit rusty.”
She smiled, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “I smell decay toward the leathersmith. No doubt there’s undead in that direction. Join me?”
“I would, but”—Ben looked over his shoulder—“I can’t wander far from Sikras. He’s only fought once without the full force of his power, and ... Let’s just say, I need to ensure he doesn’t do anything idiotic.”
A sound point. Though Helspira had only marginal knowledge on the arcane after her fleeting relationship with Cecil, she had quickly learned why precious few of Siaphara’s inhabitants pursued a life in the thaumaturgic arts.
Magic gave, but it also took. Cecil had told her countless tales about the cost of certain spells. When the recoil from one uttered invocation could mean the difference between a simple headache or death, a life dedicated to magic was a dangerous one, indeed.
Sikras
A HEADACHE? ALREADY?
“Come on, I didn’t even cast anything yet,” Sikras shouted skyward to the gods, to anything that would listen.
Whatever. If his body was going to rebel, at least he would give it a reason.
Leaning the scythe against his chest to free his fingers, they flexed and moved in a series of memorized movements, the precise choreography to summon shadow blades. All that remained was the verbal component and—
“Lepides skion.”
Gray-green smoke lifted from the ground like a fog, mingling with floating ashes and embers. The mist took the vague shapes of daggers, a pathetically small collection of three that swirled around Sikras like a slow-moving cyclone.
Then came the recoil.
The pop, snap, crack in his veins felt like little explosions, each one pulling a strained groan from his clenched teeth. Heart pounding, he pressed his hand into his chest to recover, to catch his breath.