5. Wrong Place, Wrong Time #2
“What?” The elf’s face twisted in confusion, and a murmur spread through the others who had gathered. “They would abandon us? Why?”
“I never said abandon.” Fane ran his tongue over his teeth.
“But they certainly won’t rush. That acid can melt dragon scales.
They won’t be rushing into that. Too precious.
” He looked up at the elf and the others who had stopped around him.
They were ragged, children among them, blood and bruises aplenty. “Have you seen Karvosi in the streets?”
The elf nodded, grimacing as he touch a red patch on the left side of his shirt over his ribs. “They broke through the soldiers at the docks. They’re burning everything, killing everyone.”
“Not everyone. Oh they’ll take prisoners, believe me.
But the Karvosi always hit hard and fast.” He drew a long breath, letting it out in a single sweep.
He looked over the map of Arathín in his mind, tracing the streets.
“Take everyone you love and run for the western gates. Take the path north around the bazaar, turn west once you reach Heraya’s fountain.
That will be your path of least resistance.
Don’t go back to your homes. Don’t hesitate. ”
“We… we can’t just abandon our homes…”
“Abandon them, or die in them. At every point in history, wherever the Karvosi made first landfall, the city burned. Arathín was a perfect target. There are only six Draleid that remain stationed here, and The Order’s garrison has been thinned recently – consequence for whatever the queen did to piss off the council.
” Fane realised he was mumbling. “Your choices are your own, and I will not take them from you. But my advice would be to leave now, with haste. Homes can be rebuilt, lives cannot.”
Murmurs spread through those around him.
“We’re not warriors,” the elf said, opening his hands. “We won’t make it to the gates.”
Fane took another look at them. Fifty or so, all in their bedclothes or patterned robes.
Eight children. The elf was right. They wouldn’t reach the gates, not if the Karvosi found them.
Unarmed and unblooded as they were, they’d likely be on ships before the sun rose.
He’d heard what happened where those ships went.
“Arcarian?”
“I’m not even meant to be here,” Fane whispered to himself, adjusting the straps of his satchel, feeling the weight of the books on his back.
His preference would have been to let them fend for themselves.
They would only slow him down and endanger the books.
He was only there for the books. “Fuck…” he whispered.
“Stay tight to me. If someone falls, leave them. If someone screams, ignore it. The Karvosi will take the weakest and use them to bait the strongest. I will not stop – if you do, then that is a choice you make.”
The elf reached back and pulled a small child close, nodding sheepishly. “Thank you, Arcarian.”
“We move now.” Fane turned towards the northern path, lifting his gaze upwards past the buildings to see plumes of fire streaking across the night. Only six Draleid were stationed at Arathín and perhaps a hundred Battlemages. When the dragons fell, the city would fall with them.
He drew a long breath, then broke into a sprint, bemoaning the cobbles beneath him. At least it wasn’t raining.
As he ran, he opened himself to the Spark and sent threads of Air through the surrounding streets, feeling for any vibrations: footsteps, shouts, breaths.
Behind him the Arathínians made more noise than a herd of cattle, clambering over the cobbles, the children crying, the elders shouting.
A fish could have tracked them in the desert.
As they drew close to the bazaar, a sharp shriek sounded in the sky behind them, followed by a horrendous scream, one that was joined by many. Fane grimaced, and against all logic he stopped. The thoughts in his head screamed at him to keep going. The books were what was what important.
He turned and found his fish.
Two of the Veyak had descended into the street and were tearing into the elves, spewing acid and swiping with winged claws. The rabble of elves had masked the sounds of the Veyak approaching in the air. He should have extended his threads upwards. That was a lesson learned.
“Go,” the voice in his head said. His better self. His logic. “There is no sense in slowing yourself down further.”
With the elves screams ringing in his mind, Fane ignored the voice and charged back. He opened himself to the Spark.
Acid blood. Brittle bones.
He lashed out with threads of Air, grasping both Veyaks’ tails and launching them down the street and clear of the Arathínians.
The two beasts smashed against the cobbles to roll in a tumble of wings.
But as Fane made to push threads of Earth into the creatures’ bones, a score of Karvosi emerged from an alley further down the street.
Most were human, but a handful were Matarr – tall and lean with grey-green skin, flat noses, and smooth skulls that swept backwards like the plumes of a bird’s crest. Fane had never seen the native Karvosi before, but he had seen many drawings and read many accounts.
The Karvosi soldiers took one look at the fleeing elves and charged after them, the two Veyaks regaining their composure and following suit.
He was in it now. He didn’t have the luxury of time or choices. Fane slipped his satchel from his back and lay it against the wall of the building to his left. The books would be no good to him soaked in acid.
“Stay,” he whispered to the satchel, patting it for good measure.
With that, he charged through the panicked and wounded elves, launching himself at the onrushing Karvosi and Veyaks.
One of the winged creatures spat a glob of venom as it lifted into the air.
Fane deflected it with a thread of Air without breaking stride.
And as the creature soared over the charging Karvosi below, a thought came to him.
He drove threads of Earth into the Veyak’s body, pulling and pushing at the same time.
The brittle bones shattered like glass, ripping through the Veyak’s flesh and causing it to crash to the ground, its wings mangled and broken.
That had been a positive side effect of Fane’s thought.
The true intention gave birth to a cacophony of horrid shrieks and wails as the Veyak crashed down over a pair of Karvosi, its blood spraying in the air.
More than half the Karvosi fell on their hands and knees, flesh smoking as the acid burned into them.
As he had figured, all four of the Matarr emerged unscathed from the acid rain, the blood falling harmlessly on their smooth grey-green flesh.
They continued their charge, leaving their companions writhing on the ground behind them.
And as they did, the second Veyak screeched in fury and launched itself at Fane.