Silver Blades: Plate Male

Eleven

Rhemmiel.

With its demonic shock troopers vanquished, the rebel skirmishers vanished like dew on the dunes at sunrise. As is often the case, a flying Kalibarian magus proved decisive.

"Thank you, wizard," a panting officer said, offering me his hand. "We couldn't have put this lot down without you and your mage fire." The pyrotechnics in question were radiance work of the lowest order. Depleted as my reserves of radiance were, it was fortunate that further power was not necessary.

"You are most welcome," I smiled, taking his hand warmly. "Not many Singularitans trust one such as I to fight by their side, but your people are refreshingly tolerant. May Yenah bless you," I said, making the Tarjid Mowah'i by touching fingertips to heart, lips, and eye before taking my leave. The Cloak of Raki became the great black pinions of the eagle once more and, to the astonishment of the soldiers nearby, carried me rapidly into the sky.

At first, I was hesitant to approach the great Cathedral of One in my widening circles over the city. Priests of my homeland claimed that if one of the faithful strayed onto Church property, Yenah would strike him dead for his blasphemy. I reminded myself that this was not so. I had visited smaller churches on several occasions, yet found myself alive. Likewise, many Singularitans believed a Yenaist's secret horns and barbed tail would be revealed in a church. I took delight in proving such superstitions incorrect, but this was no time to anger local religious leaders. And so it was with caution I flew into the vicinity of the largest Singularitan cathedral north of Circepal.

I was soon glad I ignored my misgivings. Very near the Church gardens I discovered a situation that required my attention. Below, a wizard was torturing a man with tendrils of nighttide magic. The Fingers of Sethos was a working often used by northern wizards allied with sinister forces from the evil realms.

I frowned with determination. My power was so depleted, decisive action was necessary. Any confrontation would prove disastrous.

Hovering unseen above my target, I narrowed my awareness to the gemstone on my turban pin. The large sapphire's flawless depths were a superior focus for drawing radiance. During times of rest, the stone, like all clear gems and crystals, gathered it in and acted as a storage device for the magical fuel. Channeling through the stone was easier than draining radiance from the environment, and enough power remained in my sapphire for a single powerful attack.

In the relentless circle of serpentine shadows below, my adversary's victim howled in pain. He was a strong man to have lasted so long. I offered a silent prayer for his salvation and began chanting mignonics under my breath to build the necessary mental vibrations for a working.

Evocations were basic utterances of power, the simplest of spells. They forced an instantaneous connection between the mortal realm to one or more planes of power, usually unleashing destruction of various sorts. The difficulty with evocation magic was not in quantity, but quality. Control was key. In this instance, my target was a man in an empty, stone paved intersection. So long as I did not strike his victim, I could release the spell using little energy of my own.

I traced arcane sigils in the air with my free hand, averted my eyes, and spoke a secret word. The utterance was swallowed by a clap of thunder as the power was released, and a blinding arc of pure energy split the sky and broke upon my target. The sorcerer below didn't even scream as his body convulsed, the electric paths through his nervous system interrupted and overloaded.

I alighted unsteadily and leaned on the Staff of Dyra as the dark wizard dropped like a landed fish nearby. I blinked into the darkness, hoping to find his victim among the living.