Chaos in the Dark

  Fenris Whiteeyes. Fenirs Fucking Whiteeyes. He had earned the name in Learona during his first campaign under Smashednose. That was over a decade ago now. He’d been promised glory and gold and battle, the usual spiel Smashednose gave to the new recruits. They’d spent the better part of three months cowering behind the city walls, under siege, food running short. He’d met Karlin by fighting him for a rat. Fenris had won. He cooked the thing up, and it sent him blind, drained the colour from his eyes. Saw nothing but black for the next two weeks. But out of mock thanks, and, though he’d never admit it, pity, Karlin had nursed him. Karlin had fed him scraps, sips of water, and told him he wasn’t missing much. Everything had gone to shit anyway.

  His sight had returned the day the gates fell. Fenris had thought they’d been opened, his vision still foggy, he’d ran through them like a hound, desperate for fresh air and something proper to eat. The archer hadn’t noticed the charging troops. It was not until the Conte Rubino on his white charger came roaring forward, eager to be first into the captured fort, that Fenris was alerted. But the count hadn’t expected the lone charging bowman, either. They’d met, and Fenris had taken Rubino with an arrow through the eye, drawn at less than ten yards. His army had faltered, rushed to their count and began the retreat as the garrison had sallied out. Fenris Whiteeyes had won the day, and his name, or so the story goes.

  Fenris didn’t remember much about those feverish days if you asked him about it. But he’d always remember that big oaf he’d fought for a rat, that fat bastard that weighed so heavily on him now.

  Karlin’s legs gave way just outside the cathedral gates. Fenris felt it through his leg, like he’d been shot with the black arrow a second time. He took two steps, howled. They both collapsed against the wall.

  “I’m sorr… sorry, Fenrisss. Fenisss… sorry” Karlin mumbled. His speech was slurring, and Fenris was reminded of little Edwin, Alayna’s son, in the apothecary's tent. That had been a lifetime ago, and the archer shrugged the memory off like a wet cloak.

  Fenris wanted to shake Karlin, wanted to rip him from the ground and tell the bastard to march. But there was none of that left in Karlin, barely any left in Fenris. So, he simply said, “You’re alright, Karlin. You’re alright.” Then Fenris pushed himself up off the wall. The pain bit through his thigh. It made his vision blur for a second, made his head light. But he fought. Pushed it down until all that was left was the bitter cold.

  Fenris grabbed Karlin by the shoulders and began to drag.

  ***

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Ice spilled from the shadow in black spikes that cut across the floor. The spikes were met halfway to the altar by Dasha’s barrier, shattering against it. The arcanist strained. Her hands trembled. For a second, she and the shadow were locked in combat, the power of the Balance caught between them in a bind of sorts. Then Miertaz charged, the reflections and visions he had seen in the blade of the sword were clinging to his mind. But he pushed them down, tucked them away for later. No place for doubt in battle, Miertaz. Thwack, Sister Ilas’s cane snapped against the practice weapon he had held as a young lad.

  The priest raised his shield, bowed his head like a ram, just as Dasha’s barrier dropped. The ice shattered against it, glittering blue in the light of the arcanist. He closed the distance fast. Swung. His dagger of sun scorched glass was caught in mid-air, just before the shadow on a barrier of its own. He grunted, tore the weapon back. Swung again. He could feel the barrier cracking. A bolt of light flashed past his head, cast from the arcanist. It disintegrated the rest of the dark barrier, and Miertaz advanced.

  It felt good. He didn’t have the strength to summon much light to speak of; he was tired, wet, cold, but there was a certain righteous anger burning in Miertaz now that fuelled him. He thrust. The shadow staggered out of the way. Then he brought his blade across in an ark, caught the shadow before it found its footing. A clean golden line tore across the darkness from the tip of his hallowed blade. When Miertaz raised his dagger again, he noticed something about the shadow’s posture, the way it cringed back. It made him falter. He’d seen this somewhere, seen someone else raise the sword, seen someone else cringe back. Almost reminded him of Fenris and arcanist…

  Shards of ice leapt forth, stopped inches from his face. “Focus, Miertaz!” It was Dasha, holding the ice back with another one of her barriers. Great beads of sweat were rolling down her mud-stained face.

  Miertaz nodded. There’d be time for uncovering the secrets of the artifact later. Dasha dropped her barrier for him, and he pressed on. He bore down on the shadow. Swipe by swipe, cutting streaks of light into the darkness. Yet, as his cuts raged, the shadow still stood. He saw the light from his hallowed blade slowly swallowed up by the darkness, knitted together by midnight strands. Miertaz wondered where it got the power from, and then he remembered. Thud, thud. Thud, thud.

  There was a fountain of darkness in this hall. A great roaring weight that crushed any light that was lingering from the liturgical prayers said so long ago. As Meirtaz’s shoulders began to scream from the weight of his shield and movement of his dagger, he stepped aside, called for the arcanist’s help.

  Light speared towards the shadow, sent it reeling backwards. Though not the light of a Leorian priest, it was of the Scale of Light and would affect the shadow. Miertaz caught a few precious breaths. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. Dasha’s spell had shocked it temporarily, but it didn’t last. Darkness coalesced around the form again, and it stood as if it hadn’t been harmed. Dasha cast another bolt, illuminating the dark corners of the Cathedral in sudden blue. The shadow howled and spun back through the air like it had been hit by a ram. It was lost for a second, but soon remerged, a spout of dark ice licking against Dasha’s hastily created barrier. “Miertaz,” she grunted. And he moved back into the fray, his sun scorched dagger dim as a trembling candle.