Chapter 17: Ascension: Part One

  Emma watched the fight develop and cursed under her breath.

  Adam and his allies had impressed her with their initial attack. It had shown a more aggressive mindset than she would have expected from him, but it was effective so she wasn’t about to complain. But the flow of the battle had run this way and that, with one her heart stopping for a moment where she felt the protective fetish she had given Adam break under the power of a strong death curse. Aside from that the fight had mostly favoured the demigod and his allies, at least until Herne pulled out this last trump card.

  From what she could tell it was some sort of forced ignition of the majority of the Hunt. They remained immortal, in that their lives were ‘saved’ within the Hunt, but their bodies, their physical forms, were now burning to generate more power for the few elites of the Wild Hunt. Essentially, they had switched from a quantity-based strategy to a quality-based one, empowering their strongest fighters with all the remaining power of the Wild Hunt.

  And that was a lot of power.

  If she pushed her senses she could just see it, the remnants of the immortality and divinity of the lesser members being funnelled into the few. The immortality of the likes of goblins or werewolves or naga was not great on its own, but when combined, distilled and poured into a greater vessel . . . that was when it became a problem.

  A dragon, a demi-rakshasa , the ghost of a god, the grandson of a Titan, whatever the hell that madwoman was, those made for some fine vessels indeed.

  And, of course, there was the army of effigies. Forgetting about so many Hunt Fire ghosts would be a grave mistake!

  Emma fiddled in her bag, pulling out what looked like a glass rod with several beads and feathers attached with copper wire. Moving carefully, so as not to disturb the delicate wards that were keeping her concealed, she held it up to one eye and gazed through at the distorted image beyond. What she saw was a brightly shining light where each of the Hunt Fire ghosts had hovered.

  Not good! If she was right then those ethereal figures hadn’t been summoned at bulk-up numbers, they were there as living bombs!

  As things stood Adam and his allies outnumbered the remains of the Hunt seven to five. The problem was that none of those five were simple. Hells, one of them wasn’t just a freaking DRAGON, he was a strong one, a prime example of his race! Throw in a small army of what she suspected to be intelligent magic missiles . . . Yeah. Adam might have goddesses on his side, but this battle suddenly became much less one-sided than she wanted it to be.

  Remaining careful not to break her concealment Emma began to pull together power to use the special trump card that she’d been preparing. It wasn’t her absolute last resort, but it was certainly the smartest card she could safely play as things stood.

  She could feel her skin beginning to itch, the power she was drawing on eroding her seals, eating away at the barriers she’d placed within herself centuries ago. She just knew that somewhere on her body more of those snow-white scales were pushing their way through. Emma didn’t relent though, she kept gathering power into the tight knot that she was preparing.

  She just hoped that the card she was willing to use would be enough if it was needed.

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  Things . . . didn’t go well as the battle restarted.

  The way the last members of the Hunt suddenly surged forward caught us all flatfooted. Well, maybe I should say it caught me flatfooted, even if I was hovering in the air. I just wasn’t prepared for the sheer speed and force they suddenly came at us with. Up until that point we’d managed to hold onto most of the momentum of the fight, even when the Hunt tried to counterattack, but abruptly that changed.

  Both Herne and the Centaur charged Kali. The dark-haired goddess responded by grinning madly and manifesting a curved sickle-like sword in each hand, blocking the spear and axe that came at her. The three crashed together like with such force that I could feel it, even though I was in the air and a good thirty feet away from them.

  The next moment I heard an undignified squawk of surprise from the goddess as she was sent careening back. With a glance, I could see where she had braced herself to meet the charge of her enemies, and I could also see the ruts she’d left in the soil as she was forced back. Kali was strong, but she’d apparently been taken off guard by the sheer and sudden force of the charge! I didn’t have time to watch or react, because in the next moment, Loraxis was coming at me like a jumbo jet with a grudge. And teeth, lots and lots of teeth!

  Both my arms clamped around the scabbard I was holding, instinctively clutching it to my chest as though it were a favourite teddy bear and I was a child scared of the dark. It was pure reflex, an action taken because I knew on a gut level that the sheath was the point of the battle, that if I lost it then it was all for nothing. If I’d had a bit more time I’d probably have shoved it into the Bag of Holding I had tied to my belt, but the sudden shift had come too suddenly.

  Having my arms busy holding onto the scabbard slowed me down a bit. I’d gotten into the habit of using my hands to help direct my magic, and having them occupied interfered with that just a tiny bit. It was something I was going to have to work on in the future.

  In the present, I just barely managed to get my shield up in time to keep those huge teeth from coming down on me!

  Ironically it was my sloppy handling of my magic that managed to save me. If I’d been better about it then I’d have made a tighter shield, more concentrated and tougher. Such a shield would also have been nicely bite-sized, just right for fitting inside those massive jaws and the ideal size for all their enormous strength to be applied in one big bite. By acting without thinking I made the sphere-shaped shield around me bigger than I normally would, and the result was that Loraxis couldn’t get his jaws around it properly!

  As those rows of fangs came down my shield did give and break, but because it was so big it was like a dog trying to bite a basketball rather than a tennis ball. Although I was pushed away I still had a front-row seat as those teeth come together close enough I could smell the dragon’s breath and hear the teeth click against each other.

  My wings actually beat at the air as I pushed myself backwards, a reflex action as I did everything I could to I move as fast as I could. I shot back as though I was being pulled by some invisible god, and I was just in time to see what came next.

  Hadriel came down on the back of the dragon looking every bit like an avenging angel sent to smite the heretic. Her entire body was sheathed in an aura of crackling, snapping and darting lightning, hundreds of bolts crawling across her skin, wings, and the two huge swords she held as though they were snakes. It was a glorious sight, and one I only saw for an instant before she impacted right at the base of the dragon’s neck! Both her swords dug in and I could see the lightning discharge into the beast, but in the next second, there was a blinding yellow-green flash as three of those floating ghosts that I’d seen appear slammed into her. The light was followed by a roar and an explosion, and I saw the angel’s form being hurled from the dragon’s back, chased by at least another five of the ghosts.

  My eyes darted around as I sped back, trying to take in the whole scene around me. Mato’s enormous form rose up on his hind legs as he tried to swat at the small cloud of phantasms that circled him, individuals darting in to explode against his burning fur whenever they found an opening. Lancelot was on the ground, Joan at his side as both of them fought that guy with the golden maces that had given me so much trouble before. Kali was nowhere to be seen, though I could hear very loud crashes and bangs coming from somewhere behind me. As for Athena, she was fighting the crazy old woman who had fought Kali before, something that was being made more complicated by also having to protect herself from kamikaze ghosts made of Hunt Fire trying to crash into her and explode a the worst times.

  All in all, the fight had become a chaotic mess, with my allies pinned down by their own fights!

  I only had a moment to take it all in though, then I was darting upwards, barely avoiding a swipe from the dragon’s claws that could have sunk a small yacht.

  “GIVE ME THE SCABBARD!”

  The Loraxis’ roar shook the entire battlefield, but I clenched my teeth and kept moving, trying to use my smaller size to my advantage. As I pushed myself around I also tried to build up power, focusing on ice and frost, hoping that if I unleashed a cold enough blast I might be able to slow the huge creature down at least. For now, buying time was my only strategy. The dragon had already proven too durable for me to be able to take him down easily, between scales like battleship armour, the healing of the Wild Hunt and his sheer resistance to magic I just couldn’t bring him down on my own.

  Well, maybe I had options, ideas that I could use, but they were all just that, ideas, untested and wild, not something to rely on midbattle. Not if I wanted to keep my heart beating.

  I might have to take the risk though.

  The next few seconds were a mad scramble as I did all I could to stay alive! Jaws snapped at me, fire seared the air, and wings snapped through the night sky with enough force to flatten buildings. I hurled myself one way, then another, always only a split second ahead of being reduced to a red smear on his claws. A momentary break in the onslaught came as I swerved sharply to the side, barely dodging as Loraxis swung his tail through the spot I’d just been in as he twisted in place. I found myself directly behind him, in a blind spot, and I desperately tried to match his movements as his wings beat and he coiled through the air.

  Even in the air, the dragon was shockingly agile, able to twist and writhe in ways that something so huge should not have been able to. I was able to match him, but only just. And as he moved I tried to take stock.

  As things stood I was managing to stay ahead of him, but that was all. Every time I tried to open distance between us he’d surge after me, taking the chance to unleash streams of fire I could barely dodge. The only way to stay safe was to stay close, but that put me in reach if he could catch up to me. I still had the ice energy I’d been building, but it seemed so small, so tiny before the behemoth trying to swat me from the sky. It was too much! I couldn’t take it! I . . .

  . . . I suddenly realised that my thoughts felt foreign to me. Wrong. Out of character.

  For a moment I almost froze in place, my mind struggling to find an equilibrium that had shattered as I fought to understand. I kept moving though, just enough to avoid being hit by a wing that hammered through the spot I’d just been occupying. My mind was racing though, and anger was starting to build in me.

  Why had I been so panicked? Sure, Loraxis was a monster, literally, but I’d taken him on before. I might not have exactly won, but I hadn’t been crushed either, so why . . .

  Dragon Fear! The thought hit me like a truck, even as I struggled to keep apace with the dragon. Dragon Fear was something that was hinted at in lots of old legends and stories, and something that had been named and described in more modern pop culture. It was a dragon’s supernatural ability to spread fear, to intimidate those in his presence with nothing but the simple aura of his existence. I’d felt something like that back when I’d been shielding myself from Loraxis’ fiery breath, but ironically, I’d been so focused on staying alive that I hadn’t been hit by the full brunt of it. Wow though, I was guessing that was why my thoughts had been running all over the place.

  I could feel it now, the foreign emotions that were pressing in on me, that I’d previously mistaken for my own. The sense of contempt, superiority and anger all rolled up and crashing up against my mind like a never-ending tide, and my confusion and panic had been the results.

  Now . . . now I was getting angry!

  Part of me was surprised at the sudden all consuming surge of rage that started to swell up in me. This thing had messed with my mind! It had violated my thoughts! Ever since that damned parasite thing that had tried to take me over when I was trying to spark my magic into life, I’d found thoughts of being controlled or having control taken from me . . . repellent. Remembering how my magic, my body, everything, had just not responded was enough to make me feel sick, and I’d been doing my best not to think about it since then.

  And now this dragon had decided to jump up and down on my little trauma button.

  And, I realised, I still had a lot of ice-based magic energy that suddenly didn’t seem nearly as tiny and insignificant as it had a few moments ago.

  Payback time.

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  Lancelot grimaced as he ducked beneath a mace swing that would have taken his head off had he been any less skilled. To his side Lady Joan stepped in, her sword stabbing out in a thrust, the point of her blade aiming to stab into the bare flesh of their foe and skewer his liver.

  Sadly the other mace came down with near-perfect coordination, sweeping her blade to the side and leaving the saint open to a kick that caught her in the chest and sent her sprawling on her back. Before their enemy could move to take advantage of the opening the Knight of the Lake was in front of her, buying her time to get to her feet as Arondight met another swing from a mace and turned it aside. In the next moment, the resurrected saint was back on her feet, light gathering around her sword as she re-entered the fray.

  In all truth, Lancelot found himself continually surprised and impressed by Joan of Arc. She had been knocked out of her angelic form during an earlier portion of the fight, but the loss of her wings and more divine powers had done nothing to dampen her warrior’s spirit. Despite being grounded she had simply drawn her sword and charged in once more, wielding the weapon with enough skill to match many of the Knights of the Round Table.

  Now, she fought at his side, the two of them easily falling into a rhythm as though they had been comrades for years. Each of them was skilled enough that they could almost intuitively understand the other, and so far it was working for them. As matters stood they were probably the weakest combatants on the field in terms of raw power, but that was hardly a concern. Lancelot had slain dragons when he had still been mortal, and Joan had led armies without knowing how to even wield a sword, each of them was far greater than they had been in life, and that was more than enough.

  Well, maybe not against this enemy!

  Ravananaer was possibly the worst kind of opponent to face. He was strong, fast, tough and had stamina. Worse, he was skilled enough to be able to use it all to the best effect. No petty tricks, no grand magic. He was just skilled and powerful, a simple but devastating combination that left no weaknesses to exploit. It was two of them against him alone, and Lancelot was still unsure if victory was an option for them.

  The fact that he was burning with the power granted to him by the Hunt did not help in any way either. What blows they could inflict seemed to heal instantly, even faster than those of the Hunt had healed before. And that was only when they could hurt him. Ravananaer’s flesh was almost as hard as stone, and had Lancelot been wielding any steel lesser than Arondight he had no doubt the blade would be a chipped and dulled mess. It was a problem he had noted Joan facing. But where his sword remained unbreakable hers healed, recovering it’s edge in the instant between blows.

  Their battle with the Huntsman was . . . frantic, a blur of attacking, defending, dodging and recovering, that just seemed to stretch on and on. There was no spare attention to be used to see how their allies were fairing, everything had to be devoted to the foe right in front of him.

  A mace slammed down, cratering the earth and sending up a spray of dirt. Kicking off from where he had been crouched Lancelot came in slashing, aiming for the extended arm, pouring magic into his blade and hoping to take it off! The other mace swung around, inexorable in the weight behind it, and he was forced to abort his attack, ducking below the swing, almost identically to before. Joan took the opening moving in low with a slashing attack rather than the thrust she had used before. Ravananaer tried to swing at her, but this time she dropped to her knees, the pearl white armour she wore skidding along the ground as she slid under his mace, slashing at the backs of his legs as she passed.

  Lancelot moved to take advantage as the Huntsman stumbled, his hamstrings momentarily severed, but was forced to defend as the stumble became a charge. The French saint reversed her course and came back at the half rakshasa, but was met with another swing of a mace, this one tighter and faster. She blocked in time but was once more taken off her feet. This time she kept her balance though, landing on her feet in a crouch.

  Off to the side, there was an eruption of ice and frost, tiny flakes of ice falling from the sky like snow, and the huge form of the dragon hit the ground like a falling meteor. Half its red scales were covered in white, and one wing looked as though it was an ice sculpture rather than a limb of flesh and blood. Even so, the dragon heaved itself back to its feet, clawing at the ground for purchase and uncaring as frozen scales broke and split at the movement, leaking trails of blood down its side.

  “I WILL NOT . . .” The words sounded like metal being tortured, but were distinct and clearly male. “I WILL NOT RELENT!!!”

  Fire burst out in a stream, reaching up into the sky and trying to sear the winged form of Adam from existence. The demigod dodged though, weaving through the air with surprising speed and dexterity. In his arms, he still held the scabbard, and Lancelot was gratified to see it still in his possession.

  “Loraxis will not give up.”

  The soft words from Ravananaer dragged the knight’s attention back to the battle. Surprisingly the Huntsman had paused, his own eyes flicking over to the dragon before turning back to his two foes. He, Lancelot and Joan now formed a sort of triangle, the distance between them more or less equal, the two of them ready to attack, but the demigod able to watch them both.

  “What do you mean?”

  Joan held her sword ready but had paused, asking her question. Lancelot thought he understood. Whatever the Wild Hunt had done had empowered their remaining members, but it had done so by burning the others. Such an increase in power could not last indefinitely, eventually, it would run out of fuel to burn to sustain itself. If this demi-rakshasa wished to speak rather than fight it would be to their advantage, rather than his.

  “If you think you have the resolve to match his, then you might as well give up. None of you can match him when it comes to motivation.”

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  Ravananaer replied with a calm tone, but there was a dark smile on his lips.

  “I shall return my king’s scabbard to him! Do you think I will be remiss in my duty?”

  Lancelot felt insulted by what his foe had said. Did he think his resolve was weaker than that of a dragon? Did that monster’s lust for treasure run deeper than his own debt to his king? Preposterous! He would give his life if it was needed, even his immortality! He would never fail Arthur again!

  “Duty. Loyalty. Fellowship. All fine and honourable things,” That smile . . . was there something else there? Something . . . bitter? “But Loraxis is not fighting for something so lofty. He fights for something more personal, something closer to the heart. Something as close as blood.”

  There was something there, buried beneath the words, hinted at but not voiced. The Knight of the Lake was certain that there were hidden depths to the words that Ravananaer spoke.

  What had Herne said before? That they would not abandon their own?

  Damnation! Lancelot could see the parts of the picture, but he could not put them together in his mind! The simple fact was that he knew himself to be a man of action, not deduction and analysis. The Knight of the Round Table was no dullard, but his cunning and wit were reserved for swiftness of thought in a battle, for the evaluation and mental dissection of an opponent’s style and weaknesses. Were Merlin or Guinevere here then they could have as easily unravelled the mystery as they would have advised Arthur upon how to deal with some belligerent lord.

  Behind Ravananaer the dragon flexed his wings. One wing was normal, but the other, covered in ice, audibly cracked as he tried to move it. The fire of the Wild Hunt rushed across it, clearing the frost and healing the wound beneath, but not fast enough.

  Holding the scabbard in one arm Adam gestured with the other. In response, the wind picked up and began to howl, then tore itself apart into several rippling blades that scythed through the air. Blades of wind slammed into crimson scales, digging in, drawing blood as though giant invisible swords were cutting at the dragon. The cuts were shallow, barely drawing blood, but to any other being they would have been grievous lacerations.

  That did not matter though, from what Lancelot could tell the attack had not been meant to kill or even wound. The goal had been to slow the dragon down, to not let it regain the skies, and in that it had been successful. Further gashes and cuts appeared on the membranes of the wings, as well as the bones and muscles. They quickly began to heal, but the rents were so huge that even the regeneration imparted by the Hunt was taking some time.

  Still, the dragon did not cower.

  A torrential stream of fire spewed forth from his jaws once more, this time wider and more forceful than before. Caught off guard by the larger size of the attack Adam was unable to dodge in time, and had to protect himself with a spherical shield about his form. The magical protection held, but while he was defending he was unable to attack, giving Loraxis the time he needed to heal.

  Off to the side, he saw fire and ice consume grasslands and nearby trees as Athena and the old woman fought. Out of sight, but not out of hearing, Herne and the centaur fought Kali. Elsewhere the huge bear form of the demigod and the red-winged form of Hadriel contended with the host of yellow-green ghosts that filled the sky, dodging or enduring as the etheric forms dived and tried to detonate themselves against their foes. The battle might have shrunk, but it had not lessened, it had simply condensed. All around Lancelot was chaos, no clear indicator of who would win, all of it somehow emphasized by this small pocket of calm the Knight of the Lake found himself in. One that, like the eye of a storm, would soon pass.

  Joan was the first to move. Her sword darted out, only to be met by a gold mace. Lancelot stepped forward and the battle was on once more!

  Even so, amidst the whirl of crushing gold and cutting steel, some small part of him continued to try to piece the puzzle together.

  What had they meant?

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  Ravananaer was running out of ideas on how to avoid defeat, and it was taking all his control to keep his growing panic from showing on his face!

  How, in all the hells, were two former mortals this good?!

  Sure, one had been blessed by the Lord of the High Heavens when she was returned to life, and one was one of the stronger bonded servants of the Once and Future King, but even so . . . The demi-rakshasa barely blocked a stab to his kidneys, then sidestepped to avoid a slash at his neck.

  The only reason he was doing as well as he was, was due to the increase in power granted to him by the Hunt sacrificing its lesser members. When added to his own natural strengths the boost was enough to close the gap between them in skill, allowing him to match them, even when they worked together.

  The problem was that they were adapting, learning, and growing more dangerous. That was why he had stopped to talk, to buy himself some time, to try to figure a way out of the hole he seemed to be digging himself into.

  He had been hoping that one of his allies would have managed to end their fight and would come to help him. Not Herne, Skloris, or Old Hefnd, they were busy keeping the goddesses tied up, but surely Loraxis should have been able to finish that demigod by now! And if not the dragon then could not the hoard of effigies come to his aid? Instead, he found himself without backup, all his allies caught in their own struggles.

  He gritted his teeth and tried to move faster, the mace he had scavenged from the site of his father’s final war whistling through the air, their weight and momentum enough to shatter fortress walls, but useless when dodged or blocked by equal power. As he fought he heard the dragon roar in pain and anger, felt the earth shake as the huge form was forced to the ground once more, and smelled the sharp tang of draconic blood before wounds were healed.

  Something had to change! If things continued as they were . . . would the Hunt lose?

  But what could he do? His earlier curse had been potent, but it had proven ineffective against the demigod before. Perhaps he could try again? But where would Ravananaer find the time to cast it? It was not as though his foes would give him the reprieve needed to cast the spell, or let him gather the divine ichor he needed for it to work!

  Something else? What other options did he have? Not for the first time Ravananaer cursed his weakness when compared to his father and siblings. His father’s immortality had been so potent that he had been unkillable even to gods! His oldest brother had been only a step or two short of flat-out invincible! Compared to either of them he was so much less, an insect, barely worthy of being a common soldier in Ravana’s army.

  His teeth bit into the flesh of his cheek as he struggled to keep his concentration. He could not afford to let his thoughts wander, not in the midst of battle! He had almost misstepped, allowing the knight to land a blow. If he was struck by either of their weapons it might well slow him enough for the other to strike as well, leading to a chain of exchanges where he would eventually fall, even with the power granted him. He could not afford mistakes! He had to be at his best if he wanted to drag some sort of victory out of this! But what? What could he do?!

  Frustration bubbled up within him. Frustration bred anger, and anger lent him strength. With a roar of fury, Ravananaer brought both his maces down on the ground before him. The impact was tremendous, enough to throw up a cloud of debris and to send a shockwave out, one strong enough to send both his foes stumbling backwards. It bought him room. It bought him time.

  What to do? What to change? His nerves felt stretched and raw, and his eyes flicked about the battlefield so fast he felt pain behind his eyeballs. His ears echoed, his skin felt raw, and even his nose seemed to be burning, the scent of smoke and sweat and blood overpowering everything else. The bastard son of Ravana felt his mind churn, taking in all that his senses offered and trying to find a solution, a weakness, something, anything!

  The dragon roared. The bear snarled. The angel swung her swords. The demigod wove his magic. Phantoms forged from Hunt Fire flew through the air. Other battles occurred out of his sight, but he could feel the raw power being unleashed as the earth shuddered. He stumbled slightly, and his teeth bit down just a bit too hard on the inside of his cheek and the taste of blood flooded his mouth.

  Blood. His blood. His father’s blood.

  A notion started to form, and in short order, it was a plan. A crazy plan, but it was his best shot.

  Not giving his enemies time to recover he went on the offensive, charging at the downed knight first, both his maces swinging as fast as he could manage. Even sprawled on the ground the Knight of the Lake was no easy target, and his sword rose, blocking and deflecting. It was a superb defence, but Ravananaer did not intend to attack, he had other plans.

  The Huntsman’s charge did not stop, instead, one mace deflected the sword to the side, and then a foot came down, crashing onto Lancelot’s chest. The move took him by surprise because there had been no indication of a kick coming, Ravananaer had not braced himself or tensed or prepared, it had just come out of nowhere.

  Well, that had been because it was no attack.

  In the split instant when the Knight of the Lake was frozen by confusion the demi-rakshasa kept going. The foot on his chest armour slammed down, the Huntsman’s weight fully behind it, driving the knight into the dirt, and then it was gone as the demi-rakshasa continued on. Had Ravananaer turned he would have seen the moment of befuddled confusion on Lancelot’s face as he understood what had happened. He had not been attacked, he had been run over. The Huntsman had literally used him as a stepping stone.

  The sheer audacity of his actions also seemed to have caught Joan of Arc off guard because her sword froze in place for just one tiny second. In the next moment, holy light blazed along it as she moved to meet him, but that delay had been enough for him to get too close to her. Her blade arced through the air . . . and cut into him as he quite deliberately made no move to defend himself!

  Joan’s eyes widened as her blade dug deep into his shoulder. Blood spilt and the edge caught on bone, but Ravananaer did not let himself flinch. Internally he was screaming, the pain of the sword and the light both seared him, but he somehow kept his jaw clenched and kept on moving. His other shoulder slammed into the reborn saint, the full force of his supernatural strength hitting her. The Maiden of Orleans was powerful in her own right, but in terms of simple stature, she was an average young woman with an athletic body. Ravananaer was a large man with heavy muscle packed onto his entire frame. Backed by his strength and his momentum there was only one outcome.

  The sword was yanked out of his flesh as the resurrected saint went flying. She held on to her weapon, but the impact took her off her feet and sent her careening through the air, only to crash back down to the earth with enough force to tear up the grass beneath her impact. She would recover quickly, but that short time would be enough for the demi-rakshasa’s needs.

  Both maces faded from his hands as he bent and scooped up a handful of dirt and dragon blood. He kept moving, never breaking stride as he dashed into the dust and smoke, counting on the obscuring environment to buy him a few precious moments. In his other hand the same bowl he had created his earlier curse in appeared. It was clean now, the ichor and blood used before having been consumed in his earlier attempt. In one movement he deposited the dragon’s blood into it, then savagely bit his free hand, tearing out a chunk of flesh and letting some of his own blood spill into the bowl. The wound soon healed, the yellowish-green fire of the Hunt dancing along the wound, but the blood he had shed was enough.

  That was the simple part. Blood of a Rakshasa King, blood of a dragon, potent reagents, but not enough on their own. He needed more!

  He grimaced as he was reminded of his plan. Just blood was not going to be enough. He would need more for this. But that was no issue, he had access to what he needed.

  “To me. Not many, but three of the strongest. Come to me, and be ready.”

  The command was barely more than a murmur since he could not risk any of their foes from hearing him, but that did not matter. He could have been in the centre of a howling gale and speaking under his breath, and the Hunt would still hear him as clearly as if he were shouting during a calm summer’s day.

  From above three spirits descended. Their forms were indistinct, but they burnt just that little bit brighter than their brethren. Their forms were indistinct, no different from any of the others, but Ravananaer could make some guesses as to which of his fellow Hunters they had come from.

  Good. If they were who he thought they were then he would have the power he needed.

  “Upon my order, sacrifice yourselves to the curse. Let it take you and feed its power.”

  Simple orders, but orders that were easy to follow. As they were the effigies serving the Wild Hunt were pure magic guided by their oaths to the Hunt and the remnants of their consciousness. Their power would slip into his working like a river feeding an ocean.

  His part, on the other hand, would not be so simple or painless.

  For just a moment fear gripped him. Pain, so simple, yet so abhorrent to him. He had sought power for fear of it, had joined the Hunt to have allies against it, and had luxuriated in the power he gained that had let him escape it. And now, he was going to invite it of his own free will! But what choice did he have? They needed the scabbard, and if they failed because he was reticent in the use of his power . . . would he be cast out? Would he even become the target of the Hunt? No! He could not let that happen!

  So, he chose pain.

  Holding the bowl out before his chest he closed his eyes and focused his will. An itch began to form, but it quickly became a heat that increased and increased until the point where it just began to burn, and then . . . nothing?

  The bastard son of the Rakshasa King almost lost control of the power he was wielding in surprise. He had been prepared for agony, for torment, for something, anything! He did not know why this was, but he had few enough objections to it. Instead, there was only a sense of cool detachment as he stared down at himself and watched the consequences of his choice play out.

  His chest split open, but not even a drop of blood flowed out. Instead, like the petals of a fleshy flower, his torso unfurled in layers, first the skin, then the muscles beneath, and then the organs. In short order, his heart was bared to the air, even as it continued to beat. With a final push from his magic, the sacrifice was complete, and his heart floated out of his chest, detaching from the veins and blood vessels like a fruit falling from an old stalk. The organ drifted into the bowl and continued to beat on its bed of blood and dirt. Ravananaer watched as the forms of the spectral Huntsmen that had been waiting dissolved into motes of light and poured into the heart, lighting it up with an aura of yellow and green Hunt Fire.

  He could feel his life beginning to slip from his, the price of what he had to pay. This curse was a death curse, a potent spell fuelled by the death of its caster. True, the demi-rakshasa would be able to cheat the final price, at least in part. The immortality of the Hunt would bring him back, but even so, it could not be fully avoided. He would be gone for a long time, and even when he returned he would be weakened for a time, his spirit less than it should be. He would recover but it could be a lengthy and miserable process.

  But it would be worth it!

  Even as the world faded he could feel the power of his curse, bloody and powerful. He felt the curse mature in only a handful of beats, like some sort of insect transforming within a chrysalis. The heart was the cocoon, and he saw it break, the red, black and gold of the curse emerging like a swarm of flies.

  Before the darkness took him, Ravananaer gave the curse its targets and smiled a final vicious smile.

  It had all happened so fast, from his escaping his foes to his body striking the grass only took a few seconds, his desperation and aptitude serving him well once his resolve was made. Joan and Lancelot arrived just in time to see the curse dart away, too fast for them to reach, and too agile for the bolts of light that the saint fired at it.

  They could only watch as the mismatched mass of energy shot towards its targets.

  --------------------------------------------------------

  The fight wasn’t won yet, but I thought I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. Despite the sudden surge from the Wild Hunt, we’d been clawing back control of the battle. A tenuous and shaky control, but it was at least something. I’d been fighting Loraxis, and though it was like riding a car I could barely control along the edge of a cliff, I was just somehow managing it.

  The dragon was huge, powerful and almost impossible to seriously hurt, but I’d managed to ground him and kept interfering with his attempts to regain the sky. His fire breath was a nightmare, but so far I’d been able to either dodge it or block it. My clothes were showing plenty of scorch marks, but my flesh was tough enough to take what I’d had to endure, and the armour I was wearing certainly helped.

  I could do this! All I needed to do was to hold out a bit longer, and then one of my allies would finish with their own fights and come help me, and from there it would be a slow domino effect until we won. It wouldn’t be easy, but I was sure that we had the advantage when it came to raw firepower.

  I clutched the scabbard tighter to my chest as I swooped to the side and avoided a swipe from the dragon’s tail. All I had to do was hold on!

  Then, just as I thought that, my left wing was blown off my body.

  I don’t think there are adequate words in any language to describe the sheer agony that hit me. I had been channelling massive amounts of magic through me at that moment. I’d been using it to throw lightning at the dragon and to conjure up an ice ball the size of a small camper van. I couldn’t tell you how many volts I was generating, or how many whatever-joules of energy I was manipulating. All I knew was that it was lots, maybe even ‘small nukes’ lots.

  Joan had explained to me how my wings weren’t just there for decoration or to give me cool shields and swords. In many ways, my new body resembled a true angel’s more than it did a traditional demigod’s, that meant my wings were crucial.

  Like everything that intrinsically used magic, angels had special etheric organs and channels in their body to help them with generating and controlling that magic. With angels their wings gave them more room on their bodies for extra channels, an approach of both quantity and quality.

  It was a characteristic that I’d inherited from Bath Kol. My wings made up a sizeable chunk of my spiritual machinery. I used them every time I manipulated magic, they helped me take the strain of channelling so much power through my body. And I had been using a lot of magic when my wing got blown off.

  All the power I’d been gathering went out of control and ran wild. Needing to ground itself, like some sort of freak lightning bolt, it surged back into me, through channels that had lost a large chunk of their hardware and couldn’t take the load. What felt like thirty gallons of molten metal suddenly tried to shove themselves into twenty gallons worth of titanium piping, and the results . . .

  I plummeted from the skies like a dead pigeon, but even as I fell I couldn’t hold back the scream that tore itself from my throat. The only reason I didn’t drop the scabbard was that my arms had completely seized up in pain.

  Somehow the vessels within me kept from utterly rupturing, but that didn’t mean they held completely. All through my body the magic escaped through pinprick breaks, burning through me, freezing me, shocking me. A thousand tiny means of destruction were all unleashed in a second, not enough to tear my body apart, but enough that by the time I hit the ground I was leaking blood from my eyes and nose, and smoke rose from my body in more than a dozen different places.

  “ADAM!”

  I never hit the ground though. Before I did I felt armour pressing up against me, catching me before impact, and I then felt the familiar sensation of healing magic pouring into me. The pain quickly lessened though it refused to flee entirely. I could feel a dull ache throughout my . . . everything. Hell, it felt like my hair wanted to complain about abuse. More than that though, I felt weak, unsteady. The closest thing I could think of was how someone would feel after getting a particularly bad electrical shock. Weak, jittery, as though bones were broken when they weren’t. Still, I didn’t feel like screaming my lungs out anymore, so there was that.

  As my vision cleared I saw Joan staring down at me, her eyes bright almost feverish with concern as they flicked from my face to behind me, where I was sure the bloody stump of my wing could be seen. Despite the situation I couldn’t help but woozily feel touched by her concern.

  Then I blinked again and noticed that the right side of her face was stained with blood.

  “Joan?”

  “Mon Deiu, you are alive!”

  The French saint smiled at me as I slipped from her hold and stumbled to the ground. For a moment my unsteady legs almost gave out on me, but I managed to keep standing. Joan nodded . . . then toppled over, slumping to the dirt as her eyes closed.

  I just stared dumbly, unable to wrap my head around the sight. I’d seen her hurt before, but I’d never seen her fall! Then the world came crashing back as I saw the blood.

  I’d noted the blood on her face, but she’d been fighting, so it wasn’t weird that she’d get blood on her. But as she lay there I saw blood starting to spread beneath her, and I saw where it was it was coming from.

  The stump where her right arm had been.

  Her armour, her flesh, the chainmail, the leather beneath, all of it was severed, ragged as though it had been torn off. To one side, I could see where the severed limb lay on the ground, her sword still clutched in the gauntleted fist.

  My mind just blanked out, a total blue screen of death, Adam.exe has run into a problem please press CTRL+ALT+DEL to restart. Joan was hurt. No, she was MAIMED! It . . . it just didn’t fit into my head. Even when she’d fought the Golem it hadn’t been like this. She’d been beaten, she’d even had her wing broken, but that had been all surface stuff, the next moment she’d been back on her feet, bruised and battered but still going. This . . . this was her being hurt more than I’d ever seen before!

  A groan of pain from the side jarred me out of my daze as my eyes darted to the side, seeing Lancelot lying on the ground. For a moment I didn’t understand, then I saw his left leg was missing from the knee down!

  I didn’t quite bluescreen again, but there was a strange sense of unreality that was creeping in at the edges. We’d been winning, things hadn’t been easy, but we’d seemed to have them under some sort of control. How had it all gone sideways so fast?

  Above me, Loraxis let out a roar, and I looked up to see Hadriel slashing at him. She was also being harried by those ghost spell-things, having to dodge them while also keeping up with the dragon that seemed to want to bite her out of the air. She wasn’t getting much time to fight back, but she was just about managing to keep Loraxis locked down. He wasn’t getting hurt, but he couldn’t break away.

  But Hadriel was hurt, and she was struggling. I could see blood running down her side, her bared skin making it easy to see the slash along her left ribs. Had she been mortal then she’d have been lying on the floor bleeding out, but instead, she was still fighting!

  Joan, Lancelot, and even Hadriel, they were all hurt! I was hurt! I didn’t know what had happened, but . . . but it felt wrong!

  My brain was finally starting to spin up to full working order, and as my thoughts finally got into some sense of coherency they were bringing emotions along for the ride. And right at the front was anger!

  To hell with this! I didn’t know who had attacked us, but I wasn’t going to just take it! I was pretty sure that Joan could fix us up if she got the time, but that didn’t change the fact that she, that I, that even Lancelot, who I didn’t know well but at least respected, had been maimed out of the blue! I wanted payback!

  I reached out to my magic, ready to rejoin the fight. I’d gather up more cold energy and try to freeze Loraxis again. It might not bring him down, but it would slow him for a bit, at least long enough for Hadriel to disengage and get those effigies off her tail. From there . . . we’d work something out.

  That was the plan, but it ran into a serious problem right off the bat. My magic, I couldn’t reach it.

  I could feel my it, but it wasn’t responding, not properly. I was willing it to flow, to draw on the colour I needed, but nothing was happening other than a tiny shudder here and there. Even my halo had gone silent, still hovering over my head, but no longer making a sound.

  It hit me like a hammer to the head. My wing! When it got blown off and the magic I was channelling ran wild it had done more than just hurt me, it had short circuited me! On an instinctive level, I knew that I’d heal, it would just take time. But time wasn’t something I had right now!

  One of the phantoms finally managed to hit Hadriel as she dipped to avoid a slash from the dragon’s claws. The explosion of greenish-yellow fire was enough to throw her tumbling through the air, disappearing into the dust and darkness.

  Then the dragon’s massive head turned, and eyes that burned focused on me.

  No magic, a wing missing and no allies nearby in any shape to fight.

  Under my breath I muttered a few curses that I was glad Joan wasn’t there to hear.