Firebrand - Chapter 662: The Right Tool

The Right Tool

Both of the mages recoiled as the ring on the ground glowed. The translucent shape of a person appeared within, looking like a spirit. As it shone, it seemed to solidify, and its form became hard and grey, as if stone itself had come to life. With limbs like a human, but only a smooth surface where a face should be, the creature turned its head towards them. The transformation had happened in an instant; completed, the mysterious being leapt forward, leaving the ring to charge at them.

Neither reacted in time, and two hands with claws for fingers reached out to rake them both across the chest. The fabric of their surcoat became torn, and the rings on the chain shirt below burst open. Martel reacted with a powerful blast of air to push his enemy at bay and gain some distance. He might as well have tried to move a mountain, and he stumbled backwards in terror.

Eleanor acted in a more level-headed manner; she raised her shield and stepped in front of her battlemage while swinging her sword at the creature. Her blade struck its grey skin to no effect.

The monster swung an arm against her, and she held her shield up in defence. It took the blow, but it came with such force, it sent her flying through the air.

Martel raised his staff, and a bolt of lightning sprung out from its movie. The potent spell struck the creature right in its chest, making it stopped in its tracks, but only for a moment. This was no creature of flesh and blood; none of Martel’s elemental magic held sway over such a being.

It closed the distance between them and grabbed him by the collar, raising him into the air, and he dropped his staff. Meanwhile, it raised the claws on its other hand to swipe them aimed at his unprotected neck.

Acting with empowered speed, Martel grabbed his gold-edged dagger from his belt and planted it straight into the chest of the monster. It dropped him and stumbled backwards before it seemed to reassert itself with the blade still embedded in its form. His weapon lost to him, Martel stared at his enemy without any idea of what to do.

From behind, Eleanor struck her fist into the back of the creature. She had thrown her weapons aside and instead began to pummel it with empowered strength. As it turned around to face her, it swung its limbs against her, which she evaded and used the opening to land another blow.

Martel’s thoughts galloped through his head. He needed to find a way to hurt the stone creature, but it seemed impervious to his magic. His eyes desperately looking around for anything that might help, he noticed the ring of symbols on the floor, still glowing. It seemed obvious they had summoned the monster; could they be used to banish it as well?

Martel had no understanding of how this magic worked; it was far beyond him. He could not hope to dispel something of such complexity and power that far exceeded his own strength. Running over to the circle, he tried the second best thing. Pointing at the nearest symbol, he let out a scorching ray of flame, as hot as he could create.

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As his spell ended, he had accomplished nothing but blackening the floor. Fire did little against stone. Suddenly, he felt himself hoisted up once again and thrown aside. He landed on his stomach, the air knocked out of him. As he turned around, he saw the dreadful creature stalking towards him. He crawled backwards, panicking. Nothing in his spellcraft could help him or save him. His dagger still protruded from its chest, buried to the hilt. Perhaps if he could get close enough to grab it.

He got on his feet and made a desperate attempt to seize his dagger. Before his fingers could close around it, the monster grabbed him by his collar once more and held him with an outstretched arm, exceeding Martel’s reach. His hands flailed in despair, unable to grasp the dagger, and his feet dangled trying to touch the ground. Once again, the stone creature raised its claws to slash his veins open.

Suddenly, it trembled and dropped Martel to the floor. Looking up, he saw how it seemed to shed its grey skin, and his dagger fell to the ground with a clanging noise. For a moment, the creature returned to spirit form, and he thought he heard a sigh or perhaps the movement of wind before it dissolved into nothing.

His vision no longer obscured, he saw Eleanor kneeling by the ring of symbols. She held her sword, wielding the pommel like a hammer. In front of her, one of the signs had been smashed to pieces. Exhaling deeply, Martel closed his eyes, catching his breath.

“We should leave, now!” Eleanor declared, standing up. Martel had no objections. He got back up, found his staff, and followed her through the great room to emerge on the other side of the tower.

***

They continued to run until the tower began to fade in the distance, swallowed up by the darkness. Only then did they dare to stop. “What was that?” Eleanor asked, breathing heavily.

“Some kind of guardian left behind, I think. You remember when we face the jinni?”

“Yes. You think this was the same?”

“Different type of magic, but same result. Some manner of powerful spirit, but trapped by magic,” Martel speculated.

“What sort of spell could ensnare a being like that, and for so many centuries?”

“The sort we should avoid. Best we stay out of buildings.” Martel licked his lips, feeling dry both from exertion but also all the emotions he had just experienced.

“Agreed.” Eleanor straightened up and looked around. For all intents and purposes, this part of the city looked identical to the one they had just left behind. A wide street with the symmetrical houses placed at perfect intervals up and down. “You are the navigator. Do you know where we are?”

“Not quite,” he confessed. “I can’t tell if this is the street we walked on back then, or if maybe it is one of those further away from the tower.”

“Given the darkness, and you could still see the tower on your first trip, I do not think you could have been further away than this.”

“True. Let us assume this is the right street. We need to have the tower on our right.” He oriented himself accordingly towards what had to be south. “This way, then.” He reached into his pocket to get his chalk and mark their route, only to find it gone. He must have dropped it in the scuffle. “I lost the chalk,” he admitted.

“Nothing to do about that. We have no idea of how much time is left before dawn. We should not waste it looking around in the dark.”

Martel agreed, in part because the thought of returning to the tower filled him with terror. “Let’s go.” Once more, they set into motion.