27 – Glass Houses
As he ran, the bolt in Andy’s back tugged and pulled painfully. His drake-scale coat had saved him, but now it was driving the discomfort as it shifted against the projectile’s shaft. Andy tuned it out, his focusing on one thing: catching the guy who’d shot him. He burst out of his cloud of fiery smoke and streaked down the path leading to the front of the expansive ho.
He was faster than his quarry; that much beca clear as he gained ground on him, but the guy wasn’t slow, and he had a head start. Andy wasn’t sure he’d get to him before he reached the house. Already, the fleeing man was yanking open the little wrought-iron gate that separated the ho’s front courtyard from the rest of the property. Andy doubled down, reaching for more mana to cast Smoke Drift.
As the magic took hold, he felt lighter; his legs pumped faster, and each stride carried him further. He reached the five-foot wall of the courtyard and launched himself over it. He ca down, spear out, streaking through the air on currents of black smoke just in ti to slam the weapon into the fleeing sentry’s back, pinning him to the oversized hardwood front door.
The man writhed and mana crackled in red sparks over his hands, but he couldn’t turn; he couldn’t do anything but claw at the door and choke on the hot blood filling his lungs. Andy left the spear in him, standing there, holding it steady, allowing the Balefire enchantnt to work its way into him. He tucked his spear haft under his right arm and, with his left, reached behind his back, trying to grasp the crossbow bolt.
He’d feared it would be in the perfect spot—just outside the reach of his fingers—but it was higher than that, and he grasped the wood easily enough. Taking a firm grip, he yanked it out, grunting in pain. The macabre justice of him removing a small wooden bolt from his back while he held a much larger, wooden spear in the back of the guy who’d shot it, almost made him chuckle, but Andy wouldn’t allow himself to feel amused—not when a man was coughing out his last breaths in front of him.
The sentry grew still and slumped against the door. Andy leaned into his spear, gathering his thoughts. He glanced at his mana count—480/735—and was about to yank his spear out when the door shattered in an explosion of fiery splinters, and he was thrown back. He smashed into the iron gate, bending the narrow posts until the latch gave way, and then he tumbled out, sliding over the rough concrete pavers of the pathway.
Andy wasn’t supernaturally durable—not when you compared his Vitality to his Speed—but he was tough. His Vitality was nine, which he’d co to understand was pretty much the standard threshold for a human. That said, his bones didn’t break, and his drake-scale coat mostly protected him from any scrapes, but he was bruised, dazed, and the wind got knocked out of him. Despite all that, he’d held onto his spear and he lifted it, angling it away from his prone figure, as he peered through the fiery smoke to see what had destroyed the door.
That was when he saw the eight-foot-tall, mostly naked woman with red-tinted flesh standing there. At first, Andy was sure she was another Cambion like Jace and his sisters, but then he saw the much more pronounced midnight-black horns, the bat-like wings, and the shiny black hooves at the bottom of her legs. They thudded against the flagstones in the courtyard as she stalked toward him. No, this woman was sothing other than a Cambion—or maybe she just had a heck of a lot more pronounced bloodline.
Despite his lack of breath, Andy scrambled to his feet, keeping his spear leveled at the woman. She paused inside the broken gateway, watching him through black eyes that seed to be backlit with orange fire. “What a pest,” she said, her voice smokey and low.
Andy, finally able to take a full breath, gritted his teeth and stalked toward her. He could only assu this was Seraphine, and, based on what he knew of that na—sothing to do with angels—Andy wondered if she’d given herself the moniker to be ironic. Or, he supposed, maybe that had been her na before the apocalypse, and it was fate that was having a laugh at them all. Just to confirm he was tangling with the right person, he growled, “I didn’t start the hostilities.”
Seraphine grinned, exposing white canines that would’ve made a vampire flinch. “I knew those trolls were too clumsy. Hard to find adequate help these days.”
Andy knew better than to let soone so seemingly powerful monologue while she worked up God-knew-what kind of magic, so he did what he did best; he charged, spear first.
###
The pain from his wounds, the dizziness from his blood loss, and the general, overwheld state of his body hit Omar all at once, and he gasped, inhaling a ragged, shaky breath as, simultaneously, the System splashed ssages across his field of view:
***Congratulations, Omar! You’ve accepted a rare, limited class: Paladin of Cinerath. This is a bestowed class and, as such, is subject to your patron’s favor.***
***You are now a level 3 Paladin of Cinerath. Because this class is a direct upgrade from your previous one, you’ve gained thirty mana, retroactively. In addition, you’ve gained the following notable ability: Cinerath’s Touch.
Cinerath’s Touch – Bound: Once per day, in a ti of need, Paladins of Cinerath may invoke their patron’s na. If the call is answered, their touch will bestow healing and vigor on a single recipient.***
***Your Consecrating Flas and Bolster the Spirit spells have been greatly enhanced by your new class.***
Omar scanned the ssages, blinking against the blood in his eyes as he saw, between the glowing yellow letters, the shadowy figures of his enemies still approaching. Hadn’t he lost any ti, then? When he realized the troll was still speaking, continuing with the sa gloating spiel, Omar smiled and brushed the System ssages aside.
“…don’t worry, though. I don’t hold it against you. Goblins breed quickly in any case, and we’ve other irons in the fire, so to speak.”
Still gripping his star-shaped mace, Omar lifted his right hand to his face and wiped the back of his glove across his eyes. He looked up at the troll and the two flanking hobgoblins, then, with a trendous effort of will and a grunt, he used his shield to haul himself, shakily, to his feet. “Did you say sothing?”
“Nothing that matters. Not like you’re going to need to repeat it to anyone where you’re going.”
Omar looked inward, found the knowledge of his new ability waiting for him, fresh in his mind like he’d just read a text or attended a lesson about it, and nodded. “Where am I going, exactly?”
The troll chortled in his gravelly, wet voice. “To hell, I suppose.”
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Omar tilted his face down and touched his forehead with his left hand. “Cinerath,” he said, his voice steady and firm, “if you’re listening, I ask for your aid—your touch.”
Warmth flooded into Omar’s hand, poured from his fingertips into his skull. It filled his body like water would fill a vase, rushing down into him. Where that warmth went, aches and pains faded, and hot energy took their place. At the sa ti, a white light shone from his hand at the point where it touched his forehead, a light so pure and bright that it threw the carnage covered street into stark contrasts; everything that faced Omar was bathed in it, and everything shielded from the light was cast in the deepest, blackest shadows Earth had ever seen.
The troll and hobgoblins gasped and stepped back, cringing against the glare. Even as it faded, their eyes were temporarily blinded, and they blinked against the spots in their vision. The troll seed to recover first, growling as it summoned a crackling red ball of sparks into its left hand, but then, like a badger stirred from its den, Omar ca sprinting, shield up, mace high, face a mask of battle glee.
“Yaaaaagh!” he roared, slamming his shield into the troll, sending him sprawling with half a dozen broken bones. Omar whirled and blasted the side of a hobgoblin’s skull with his mace, crumpling bone and squeezing forth a pink paste. As the troll scrabbled to its hands and knees and the second hobgoblin frantically waved its enormous axe around, still blinking, still struggling to see, Omar pressed the attack on the fallen leader.
He didn’t want the troll to get his feet under him—didn’t want to give him a chance to work any evil magic. He could feel his fear and panic; Omar knew the troll was desperate. Almost instinctively, he cast Bolster the Spirit, and his mace blood with light, ten-tis brighter than ever before. The troll hissed and shrank back, and Omar roared, laying into him, pounding his heavy weapon into upraised hands, wrists, and then into the troll’s face and skull.
With each impact, he felt bones break. The troll gasped whimpering growls, and each ti it started to draw mana into a spell, Omar laid into him with another flurry of blows. Omar’s frustration mounted as he watched, again and again, the troll’s cracked, bent bones straighten. Again and again, the troll’s mottled, bark-like flesh stretched tendrils of new, web-like flesh to knit its wounds closed. Even so, Omar was sure he’d almost killed the creature, almost beaten past its unnatural ability to heal, when the other hobgoblin crashed into him.
Omar staggered several steps, but he didn’t go down. He was no weakling to be sent sprawling by a mindless brute. He was a paladin. Omar flung his shield out with a roar, casting Power Bash. The battered oak and steel slamd into the hobgoblin’s elbow and shoulder right as the creature lifted its axe for a downward hack. The monster’s eyes bulged, its wide mouth yawned open, exposing two broken, decaying tusks, and then it was airborne, flying away from Omar like it had t the business end of a speeding train.
Omar heard bones break, and he saw the hob tumble onto the roadway, unmoving, so he turned his attention back to the troll. It wasn’t there. Scowling, he lifted his gaze, scanning the battle scene in the light of his blazing mace. At first, he feared he’d lost the creature, but then a shadow, darker than those around it, scurried further up the street. The troll stumbled in his haste to flee, and Omar gave chase, his legs strong, his lungs fresh thanks to his patron’s healing.
He leaped one pile of goblin bodies after another, never taking his eyes off his quarry. As he cleared an overturned compact car, a whisper entered his mind: Use fire, Paladin!
The sensation would have been troubling if he didn’t recognize the voice: Cinerath. Omar grunted, heaving for breath as he sprinted the last few yards, and then he was on his foe, slamming his shield into his back, knocking him down. As the troll fell, Omar used the last of his mana to cast Consecrating Flas.
White fire erupted from the blacktop right under the stumbling creature. The troll scread, its voice suddenly shrill. It convulsed, arms flopping, and then fell, twitching as its flesh bubbled and gases escaped its blackened corpse. To Omar, the flas were heatless and silent, and he stood inside them, heaving for breath over his ruined foe. When he was sure the troll was dead, he turned to scan the battle, looking for the remaining goblins, but they were long gone.
Grunting with satisfaction, he turned his attention to the nearby rooftops, wondering if he could solve the mystery of the missing archers. Before he took two steps, though, the System hit him with a series of wordy ssages.
###
Seraphine gasped at Andy’s sudden attack, stumbling back across her little courtyard toward the ruined doorway of her ho. She had long, black claws, and she was quick with them, knocking Andy’s initial pair of thrusts aside. Still, he pressed the attack, waiting until she was distracted by the two steps leading to the doorway to cast Cinderstorm Blast.
His lungs burned, his ribs stretched to a near-painful expansion, and then he coughed out a cloud of burning smoke, pouring it over Seraphine and beyond, onto her porch, and through the ruins of her door. Andy hadn’t thought of that—burning her house down—but he supposed there was a real risk of it. He pressed the attack, though, figuring he’d tackle that problem after dealing with the woman—demon?
As he had the thought, wondering if she were, in fact, a demon, it occurred to him that maybe his smoke- and fire-powered spells wouldn’t be as effective as he hoped. As if she’d read his mind, Seraphine leaned toward him, smiling a toothy grin as her black eyes began to glow with inner flas. “What fun,” she hissed, as a sword of red flas sprang into being, dancing around her like it were being swung by an invisible swordsman.
Andy turned up the intensity, pouring every ounce of his speed into his attacks. He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again—a human-sized sewing machine, driving his spear into the demon’s flesh faster than the eye could track. Or—he would have, if she hadn’t shattered with the first blow. Her body ca apart like it was made of glass, tinkling onto the pavers of the courtyard, and then the sword swung, engaging Andy’s spear, even as he continued to stab at empty air, dumbfounded by the idea that he’d already won.
He hadn’t won, though. Seraphine’s laughter echoed through the black smoke, and he caught glimpses of her smoldering eyes moving around him. Andy tried to give chase, to stab where he saw her, but the sword—that damned, flaming sword—wouldn’t let up. It was all he could do to defend against it as it whooshed through the air, sotis coming close enough that Andy could feel its heat on his flesh.
“You’re a dangerous one, that’s certain,” Seraphine’s voice echoed through the smoke, bodiless and sourceless. “But your fire doesn’t bother , and you aren’t the only one who’s learned a thing or two. You aren’t the only one who’s earned a thing or two—catch!”
Andy had finally beaten the floating sword back—or maybe it was running out of mana—but it wasn’t flaming as brightly and it was drifting away from his spearpoint when Seraphine said, “catch!” He whirled toward the sound of her voice and saw sothing tumbling toward him. It was a small glass box, about the size of a deck of cards. Reflexively, Andy swung his spear toward it, aiming to knock it off course. As soon as the weapon touched it, though, the box expanded, growing huge in Andy’s vision.
He realized his spear had pierced the side of the box, and as the box expanded, it stretched along the haft toward Andy’s hands. With an almost embarrassing yelp, he let go of the spear, but it was too late; the box was growing too rapidly, and it touched his left hand. It felt like cold water as it pulled on him, drawing him through the glass wall—or maybe it expanded around him—and into a cool, blue-tinted room.
“What the hell?” Andy stooped to pick up his spear when he saw it lying by his feet, then he looked around. The room was big, but not vast—maybe a hundred feet to a side, with a fifteen-foot ceiling. Every wall and the ceiling seed to be made of blue-tinted glass, but there were strange, shifting lights beyond the walls. As he stared, trying to figure out what they were, a huge orange orb drew close to the wall nearest him, and as it seed it might pass through the glass, it ca into focus—a giant, fiery eye.
After a mont the eye blinked and then drew away, and more abstract, blurry things took its place. Andy stood there, mouth agape, as he slowly put the pieces together. The box hadn’t gotten huge—he’d gotten small. He was inside it, and Seraphine was holding it—carrying the box with her.
“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” Andy groaned, looking around the room again, focusing on stacks of boxes and pieces of random furniture near the center. With no other ideas jumping into his mind, he walked toward them, hoping sothing there would spark so inspiration.
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