Chapter Forty-One point Eight: The Great’s Sacrifice

  [The year 807, the Siege of Kalgurak]

  The Ventharian Knights, the war mages, and the elemental golems–the pride of the Ventharian ground forces and equal in every way to their Eldeitian counterparts. These lined the sheer walls and the approaches to the fortress-academy. Any minuscule Eldeitian force that could brave the sheer cliffs would have to contend with the mountain, a silent, insurmountable ally to the significant contingent protecting the one safe place in the war-torn kingdom.

  Or so they thought.

  However, what came into view—a sight that cast a shadow over the birthplace of magic—was the very apparatus that gave the Holy Empire its edge; a dozen, maybe twenty monstrosities in the skies.

  It was those beasts that made the advance into the heart of Venthar a mere stroll. The capital had fallen in a gruelling siege that lasted until this moment—four months of immense sacrifice from both defender and conqueror.

  That would have been enough; Eldeitia had achieved an overwhelming strategic victory, and the ruling sect of the royal family was slaughtered. One-third of the kingdom was under Eldeitian occupation, and the remnants were all but ready to sue for peace.

  However, the conquering power did not offer any delegations when they raised the Eldeitian standard over the Runite Palace—the seat of Ventharian power; instead, the fleets turned north.

  Headed for their true objective: not the administrative heart of Venthar, but its symbolic core: the cradle that saw the continent-spanning mage’s guild.

  A final coup de grace, a humiliating finale to the war that Eldeitia had all but won.

  The beleaguered collection of souls could only watch in abject horror. Tower after tower, spire after spire, fell to the overwhelming firepower of the armada before them.

  The arcane-reinforced walls collapsed by the end of the first day, and the head mages and remnants of the military shepherded the occupants into the mountains. The newborn twins joined the panicked pandemonium of apprentices, scribes, journeymen, mixed with civilians, refugees and broken legions.

  They shared more than just their helplessness against the mechanical swarm of death assembled in the skies above the academy. They also were bound by the belief that brought them here in the first place—the same as their mother: that the mountain fortress would be impervious to the war brought upon their homeland.

  As dusk turned to dawn, as fire rained from above, the reality became apparent: the fortress would be reduced to rubble; it was only a matter of time.

  The Eldeitian soldiers would arrive next, relishing the joyful aftermath of slaughter.

  Of course, that wasn’t to say there weren’t those among the beleaguered defenders who attempted to muster resistance. On the second day, three high mages gathered their energy into a dazzling, crackling orb of arcane energy, well over the size of an ogre.

  For a brief moment, it felt like they could break the siege; the lance of pure, azure energy brought down the lead ship, then another. The third had already begun gathering power, ready to bring down yet another sky ship; after all, they just had to repeat it eighteen times.

  The severity of the circumstances would become obvious to anyone who unwisely entertained that fantastical notion. Mere seconds after the first cheers of triumph bellowed from the crumbling academy, those three mages—and their perch — were reduced to ash in seconds.

  Smitten down by a cacophonous volley from the holy juggernauts in the sky—one that no conjured barrier could stand against.

  Three days in, another two ships would be brought down. The same cost, senior mages mustering, trading their lives in a dazzling display of raw magical energy, enough to bring down a hulking beast.

  But the reality of the trade-off was as plain as the cycles of day and night; nearly a millennium of collective knowledge was being burnt as fuel for their meagre defiance.

  In light of the situation, on the fourth day, as their reserves of intellect and raw arcane firepower were dwindling, they devised a new approach: a team under the guidance of Archmagus Salrun—Valdor’s youngest apprentice—would head a group of mages tasked with infiltrating the new lead sky ship. They would cloak themselves in invisibility and, while using Salrun’s abilities to traverse the aerial space between fortress and fleet.

  The plan was straightforward: to get onto a ship and to employ that instrument of warfare to collide with the armada which was present and waiting. In an ideal world, the outcome would eliminate as many ships as possible, and ideally, the entire fleet.

  Unfortunately, that ingenuity, born of desperation, would not bear fruit.

  The would-be band of saviours was swatted out of the air as if they were mere insects. Their arcane signatures were all but visible to the extensive lattice of scrying wards that were equipped on each ship.

  By the fifth day of the conflict, nearly all the arcane armaments and any other mages capable of casting a spell potent enough to traverse the considerable distance and inflict substantial damage upon the armada had all but evaporated—only able to take down one additional beast in the sky.

  Fifteen skyships remained, all for a soul-crushing toll: the brightest minds in Venthar; buried in the rubble, a mix of unrecognisable gore; or they had fled in pure cowardice through the immense arcane tools at their disposal.

  There was no gilding this bitter truth. This was the epitome of hopelessness, a pandemic of despair that permeated the great halls of the academy, the only sanctum—at least, until the Eldeitians disembarked.

  The sixth day came, emboldened by the absence of any overt magical display that attempted to fell the juggernauts of steel; the armada crept forward. Eldeitian legions, each knight order dedicated to one of the five, lined the halls, ready to disembark and slaughter the remaining dissidents within.

  There were those among the trapped who attempted to rally any able-bodied person, the twins’ caretaker among them—an elderly mage with little militaristic inclination.

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  Despite this, the overwhelming weight of despair completely crushed any chance of a spark of rebellion that might have existed.

  There would be no last stand.

  Or rather, it wasn’t necessary.

  Every living soul still inhabiting the fortress institutions felt it: a comforting solace buzzed through the cavernous walls of the inner sanctum.

  Arcane energy.

  The powerful surge was experienced by every living creature within the area, those who were aboard the skyships, as well as those who were desperately awaiting their inevitable fate at the end of Eldeitian blades.

  In the recounts of this moment, even people with no magical talent mentioned the immense volume of arcane energy that was released.

  The very walls of the academy, cracked and still standing, seemed to hum to life, veins of arcane energy welling towards the front, as if shepherding all that lay in its bosom towards the outdoors.

  Towards what was certain danger.

  But this was no invitation to suicide. It presaged, beckoned, and marked the building crescendo of what would come.

  A wordless call to witness the once-in-a-lifetime magical display.

  ***

  There stood Valdor the Great on the ruins of the western wall of Kagurak, his staff held firmly in hand. The aged elf’s face was framed by neck-long hair, bleached white by the passage of time. With a grunt of effort, he pounded his staff into the ground. A tendril of arcane energy shot from him, enveloping the entire fortress in a thick, brimming barrier that held the barrage of holy magic and runepowder at bay with ease.

  His face was an unnatural blend of solemn contemplation and condescending scoff–one likely brought about by the notion that the Eldeitians thought themselves arrogant enough to waltz into the academy, his home for the five centuries he breathed.

  He inhaled, steeling himself for what he was about to unleash. As the trickle of onlookers emerged from the great hall, the Grand Magus’s barrier almost muted the sound of the Eldeitian barrage, providing meditative tranquillity, or rather, calm before the absolute carnage that would be unleashed.

  Then it began. Five orbs of elemental energy, no bigger than pebbles, flickered to life. They wafted upwards from Valdor, as if riding along the currents of wind.

  Then they assembled before him like an audience in an arc: red, brown, purple, ocean blue, and finally, a white-translucent orb, marked by the faint disturbance of the surrounding air.

  These were the five elements of evocation, all simultaneously channelled through Valdor’s incredible mastery of the arcane arts. Flame, Earth, Lightning, Water, and Air. A mere parlour trick for one bearing centuries of experience; all done without incantations or gestural movements, just willed into existence by the sheer power of his arcane mind.

  And that was just the opening act.

  The orbs began to glow, gathering arcane energy from their caster, trails of elemental energy pouring in streaks from his figure.

  The crimson orb roared into a blistering orange flame, its heat melting the snow that adorned the walls. Brown energy coalesced, solidified, forming a massive stone lance. Then the flames wrapped around the floating rock, red-hot veins carved into the stone, brimming with a volatile energy.

  Ahead of them, purple energy crackled, melding with aeromantic winds to form a whirling, thunderous cyclone. Held together by its caster’s magical aptitude, it needed no footing on the ground. Then, the ocean-blue orb blossomed in the bowels of the cyclone; the whirling currents of water instantly crystallised into deadly blades of ice.

  Finally, the vortex of lightning, wind, and ice was unleashed on the fleet of airships.

  The multi-elemental force of nature slammed into the assembled airships. Gale-force winds buffeted the hastily raised holy barriers, which faltered under the sheer might of the storm.

  Then, lightning and ice tore through, ripping the holy energies as if they were mere fabric. A chorus of high-pitched clangs rang through the mountains as the frosty shards and arcs of sparks tore through the ships’ steel hulls like forks pulling apart tender meat.

  The damage would not be enough to bring the ships down outright, only partially compromise their ability to maintain lift. This, however, was not the end. The cyclone grew in intensity as Valdor raised his palms, pressing them together as if attempting to compress a mass of rubber.

  As the conjured force of nature responded to the elder mage’s command as it closed in on itself.

  The skyships began to drift into each other. The groan of steel rained throughout the valley as one by one they slammed into each other, unable to fight against the sheer force of Valdor’s elemental energy.

  As the second ticked by, what was the orderly, assembled force of metal monstrosity above the skies of the fortress academy began to resemble a metallic crumpled mass of steel, completely at the mercy of the very magic they scoffed at throughout this mere formality of a siege.

  Then the coup de grace came.

  The flaming giant lance of stone, which had been a humming witness to the spectacle, shot forth. Launched like a ballista bolt into the now congealed mass of airships.

  In the next moment, a firestorm erupted, matching the roar of a dozen dragons, tearing through the lines, sundering through the weakened barriers and the exposed hulls.

  A combination of the stinging smell of ozone, the sharp tang of burnt metal, and the unmistakable odour of burnt flesh filled the air as the skyships began to descend towards the anticipatory embrace of the earth below, with dozens, or possibly hundreds, of incinerated Eldeitians in tow.

  This coordinated elemental cacophony lasted a mere minute, although it felt like an eternity to everyone who bore witness, the pinnacle of what a singular mortal could do with magic spelt out in front of their eyes.

  By the day’s end, the remaining fifteen Eldeitian warships turned into a graveyard of indented, ruptured, molten metal at the base of the mountains.

  A feat that the desperate armies of Venthar couldn’t achieve even after gruelling months of battle.

  Having lost almost their entire fleet, the conquerors were in no position to extract any concessions that resembled capitulation.

  Instead, they would depart with only a single consolatory gain: the Ironcrag highlands to rebuild their lost armada.

  A single mortal, one old man, unparalleled in his arcane knowledge, achieved the impossible—a fleet in ruin by his hand, a nation saved.

  Thus, the Grand Magus left the world two sunsets later, having given his life to protect the birthplace of magic.

  [Present Day, the Greyspire Mountains]

  “… and that is how Valdor’s life ended. He is the reason our homeland still exists.” Kela’s voice trailed off as her recollection ended, her eyes tracing to Selriph in expectancy.

  The youth’s reaction was far from enthusiastic awe. “Somehow … it does not feel like a compliment when you compare me to someone who expended their entire life force to bring down a fleet of airships…” his reply came reluctantly, perhaps even tinged with disgust.

  Selriph, in a manner that was almost theatrical, made a circular motion with his hands in the air. “So what? Are you saying I can somehow bring down an airship with my magic? There is a great berth between melting an iron lock and that impossible feat!”

  A light chuckle escaped Kela’s lips, despite the lack of humour in Selriph’s tone. “Not even the Great Magus could have done that at your age. Talent needs nurturing—you just need a place for that.” Her eyes lit up with solemn enthusiasm, and she placed her hand on Selriph’s shoulder.

  Her eyes dropped low as she bit her lip before continuing. “We could go back to Ironcrag; no, go to Venthar, together. They could train you, take the fight to Eldeitia when they strike once more. You could have your vengeance.” Her crimson eyes flickered as they reflected the fire that crackled behind the duo.

  Selriph’s gaze locked directly onto the elf, his voice carefully prepared with a tone of formality. “You may be right. I aspire to be trained. But you are mistaken about one thing.” The youth paused, his frigid hands balled up into a fist, eyes full of conviction.

  “I have no interest in fighting against Eldeitia.”

  Kela’s eyes furrowed, as if she had heard the crazed ramblings of a tramp. “I don’t understand, so what do you want? Why run away and come all out here?” as her hands left the boy’s shoulders.

  Selriph’s answer came flat. “Study magic. That is all. “

  That answer did little to clean the filth of confusion on Kela, who stared back in confusion as the boy got up, making a beeline to his bedroll.

  Selriph passed the elf, clutching the arcane orb he had repaired, his hands locked in a tight embrace. The two scarcely acknowledged each other’s presence—each occupied in their own matters of contemplation.

  The male half of the Ventharian twins? Engrossed in attuning to his prized orb.

  And the runaway templar’s mind raced with the story’s implications—his newly acquainted companion on his journey to the respite of his dreams.