Chapter 62
B art stared mesmerized by the hole in the sky and the growing orb of wondrous light in its center. The shaking ground and screams of frightened soldiers could not tear his eyes away.
“Are you behind there?” he asked Leliel, wondering if perhaps this was the moment the goddess decided enough with all the world and brought them all to her heaven.
And then the orb fell, struck the Tower Majestic, and rolled outward in a sudden wave of fire.
“What?” he asked, stumbling backward. “What is that?”
Soldiers panicked all around him, retreating from Bridgetop.
The Racliffe soldiers reacted no better, some rushing to die on protectorate blades, some freezing horrified in place, and most scrambling for the passageways down into Underbridge.
Everywhere was chaos, and then piercing above it all was Sariel’s thunderous voice.
“To me!” he roared, so loud it seemed the earth itself quaked. Bart’s mouth dropped at the sight of Faron’s brother standing with his arms raised and his sword stabbed into the ground. Silver light lashed about him like lightning, swirling into the palms of his hands.
The wave rolled closer, moving like a storm front, its height twice that of the highest spires within the city. Its surface crackled with silver lightning, and its sides, though rippling like fire, swirled with every manner of color. To even look upon it made Bart’s stomach dance and loop.
Sariel clapped his hands together.
“We shall not burn!”
A dome of silvery light rolled outward from Sariel’s chest, washing over the vast majority of the army. It shimmered like mist, and it was so beautiful, so wondrous, Bart felt compelled to tears. His mind was empty. His chest was tight with fear.
“What are you?” he wondered aloud as he stared at Sariel.
The light continued to pour out of Sariel as his feet rose from the ground.
His head arched backward, a scream of defiance on his lips as the rolling, ethereal flame struck the dome.
It flowed across it, unable to penetrate.
The flames continued, and Bart tilted his neck and watched it travel over and above him.
He felt no heat from its passage, but what he did sense was an undeniable wrongness that made him shiver.
The wave continued, and the silver dome cracked.
“I can’t,” Sariel shouted, suddenly dropping to his knees. His back bent as if burdened by a terrible weight. “I can’t. I can’t. Faron!”
The dome shattered, and the last vestiges of the fire washed over Isabelle’s army before continuing throughout Racliffe like an unstoppable tsunami.
Bart’s jaw dropped as the color touched him, so faint and yet so horrible as it peeled into his skin and set his entire mind alight.
His bones ached. His joints locked. His eyes opened wide, and he saw things he could not explain, saw stars and swirling things and open teeth and a thousand moons turning and turning and upon them cities and oceans and life upon drops of water and then he was screaming, he was screaming, and screaming, and screaming.
The fire passed. A strange silence followed, everyone within too shocked and exhausted to make a noise. The first to scream were not the protectorate soldiers, but those upon the bridge.
Everything spun. Bart was barely able to stand, he was so dizzy, but he looked to the soldiers of the enemy and saw…
He saw…
They were no longer people. They were white and gold, feathered, multilimbed, clawed, and drooling. They squawked and shrieked, and he felt like he was back in Frostlash Forest, lifting the jaw of a wolf to see the dead eyes of a human face staring back at him.
“No,” he screamed, then turned and fled.
He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care.
He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t stay. The streets of Racliffe were foreign to him, and flooded with soldiers fleeing and people staggering out of their homes.
Buildings grew long, walls that might have been painted white now composed of marble and silver.
The ground cracked. Moss, vines, and flowers bloomed wild, in vivid colors and shapes Bart had never seen.
Trumpets from the protectorate army called for a retreat, but Bart was far enough away that he barely heard them.
He fled past homes where, through windows, he saw people changing, heard the screams of those within who did not.
Up ahead, a hand the size of a building rose from the stone, six-fingered and encased in gold, to block the path.
Bart turned aside, cutting into a cramped alleyway that stank of feces.
He raced to the end, flung his back against a wall, crouched, and then rocked in place.
“Her hand upon my heart when I am in pain,” he prayed, his hands clenched and his eyes squeezed shut. “Her eyes upon my face when I am in doubt.”
A pained shriek from the road, followed by a breaking sound, and then a meaty tearing. No more shrieks.
“Her words upon my mind when I am in need.”
All around him, he heard stone groan and crack. He dared a glance up and immediately regretted it.
The wall opposite him was still a wall, and yet it had opened three eyes to gaze upon him. Their whites were bloodshot, and their irises solid gold. Bart’s mind went blank. The remaining words of the prayer left him.
“Leliel, please, goddess, please,” he whispered, paralyzed by his fear. What he’d give to be home in Clovelly, safe with his family. To have never joined Isabelle’s army. To have never come to this forsaken city.
Hands rose from the ground, the stone moving like flesh. The street itself opened several mouths, exhaling hot air as they spoke in unison.
“Who?”
Bart closed his eyes and crouched into a tight ball as he wept.
“Please, goddess, save me, please save me, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Please, I don’t want to die.”
More hands from the wall, grabbing him, holding him. He felt the heat of another exhalation, deep words rumbling across his body from a mouth shockingly close.
“What? Am? I?”
Hands dragged him. He screamed. The mouths opened, and their teeth were blunt, but strong, so strong, as they smashed the bones of his legs and then swallowed, dragging him deeper and deeper into their maws.
The call for retreat sounded from the trumpets, as if anyone needed the order. Marshal Oscar led the way, hollering for anyone and everyone to stay together.
“Bart?” Derek shouted, spinning, trying to find the young man.
He’d promised Faron that he would keep an eye on him, protect him, but damn it, where had the kid run off to?
The whole world felt wrong, too bright and too fast. Nightmare creatures writhed upon the Bridgetop crossing, and he dared not look at them.
“Bart!” he cried again, sprinting in the center of the chaotic mass of humanity fleeing west. “Damn it, where are you?”
His heart leaped. There, fleeing down the street, north instead of west. Derek almost let him go. He didn’t have to do this. It was stupid to risk his life for the young man. The sane thing to do in a world suddenly insane was to flee with the rest of the army.
Derek drew his sword and ran after him. His chase was almost immediately halted by an elderly man blasting out of his home with such strength, the door broke off its hinges.
Only it wasn’t just an elderly man. A second person grew from the torso, bare-chested and young, and he flailed at Derek with wild abandon.
Derek swung, cutting across the throat of the elderly portion, but it did nothing to halt the attack.
Arms beat his body, and he staggered under the blows while forcing himself to keep fighting. He thrust, burying his sword in the stomach of the younger half. Both heads screamed, blood gurgling from the cut throat of the older, and then the… thing… dropped to the ground.
Derek ripped his sword free and stared at the corpse.
“This…” he said, his eyes wide and his heart pounding. “This isn’t happening.”
Wailing to his left. A mother, cradling her daughter as she emerged from her home. Every bit of the mother’s skin was a metallic gold. The daughter, a babe not even a year old, was fully encased in silver.
“She’s not breathing,” the gold woman shouted at him. “ She’s not breathing! ”
Derek ran. Simple commands jumbled through his mind.
Find Bart. Flee west. Exit Racliffe. And so he ran.
More people emerging from homes, twisted beyond rational possibility.
He ignored them. A man with bark for skin and vines for hands tried to grab him.
Derek shoved his sword into his chest, piercing where he hoped a human heart remained.
“Bart!” he screamed, hoping against hope the young man might hear him. “I’m here!”
Nothing. It was hopeless. Derek bit down a curse, glanced over his shoulder, and saw far too many twisted things between him and the retreating army.
“Damn it all,” he muttered, and searched for a different path.
Perhaps if he cut across to the next street, he might find a way.
That hope died the moment he emerged. A lion blocked the street, only its face was that of a human.
Wings sprouted from its back and then folded inward.
Instead of fur, it bore pure white scales that seemed to vibrate.
“Fuck off,” Derek shouted at the thing and raised his sword. “I’ve no business with you.”
The human face stared back. No emotion. Seemingly no thought at all. It made Derek’s skin crawl.
“I said back!” he shouted, and then swung his sword. It cut the lion’s side, and to his surprise, deep red blood flowed across the scales. He retreated another step, his stomach churning as he realized the scales were not scales at all. They were alive.
“Lost,” the lion spoke. “Faithless.”