The Calm before the Storm

Chapter 3

The sky was a terrible purple concoction, much the colour of the shadows in Ivan's living nightmare.

Colossal amounts of raw magic had emanated from the colliding armies, swilling into the air like great dark plumes and blocking out the searing sun. For once, during the daylight, the deserts of Gweatara were icy cold.

Ivan stood between two jagged crenellations, peering down upon the screaming soldiers and crackling spells, Dunric stooped by his side. He watched as a thickset man, who looked like an ant from the dizzying heights of the Crystal Tower, was slowly surrounded by several large crystal golems, waving his sword around like a crazed lunatic.

Dunric laughed before muttering quietly to himself. "If he had half a brain cell he'd hit them with the hilt. If he had an entire brain cell he'd run. You need to bludgeon them, slashing is pointless..."

Dunric turned and looked to the man by his side, standing silently, waiting. "You won't be waiting much longer. The time is nearly upon us."

Ivan's voice was flat, still in a trance. "And what happens when he's dead?"

"You're free to go. Your brother is the one of utmost importance here. If he lives; we die. He's a puissant warrior from a famous family, the same name that you besmirched, and he's idolised by the men he commands. A tide changer."

"And yet you've chosen me to kill him?"

"Yes and no. He's everything you never could be. More respected, more decorated, more talented in every way. He resents you for your objectionable behaviour in the past. You're a mockery. And yet, of all the men in this world who could have come our way, the Void Master has chosen you. He seems fond of poetic justice."

Ivan retaliated quickly, his voice flared momentarily. "He's a good man. He's my brother. His death would be poetic injustice." His voice returned to its prior flatness. "Apologies, my lord."

Dunric stared back in concern and muttered again. "Stubborn. If only we could leave it in for longer, we didn't have enough time..."

The screams of thaumaturges down below was becoming increasingly louder.

Volleys of magical energy rushed towards the Crystal Tower, only to be deflected by an unseen forcefield. However, with every volley, the forcefield grew weaker.

Dunric scanned the ground forces pushing their way up the steep cliff face. Rows of crystal golems charged from the base of the tower, leaping into the ground and shattering into thousands of lethal splinters. It was futile.

If well commanded, the golems could take down five men for every one of their own that died, but it still wouldn't be enough. But Dunric did not look the slightest bit concerned.

Searching through the mess of crystal shards, disfigured corpses and adrenaline-fueled men, Dunric finally found his target: a bearded man with flowing black hair being whipped by the speed of his accent. He was handsome, in a rough, craggy sort of way; an iron jaw and a chest like an anvil.