Friendly Fyre: Chapter 35 - The Eve of Battle

The Jorrian troops send vibrations through the ice as thousands of armored boots stomp against the ground in time. Through the Dungeon Core, I count them by the number of footfalls. I determine they’ve come with direwolves and larger beasts by their gait. I feel the wheels rolling over the ice from whatever machines of war they’ve dragged with. They’re not in a hurry. Their movements are slow and intentional as they converge on the entrance to our kingdom.

Ollie and a few harpy scouts confirm what I sense before retreating underground: I seal the exit after them, closing us all beneath the ground.

“WHAT DO WE DO?” Ollie asks, resting his head on the floor through an open balcony designed for his access.

The rest of the war room is tense. Torim is twitchy, and remains glued to a basin of water he’d set up in the corner of the room. He spelled it with scrying magic, allowing him to look through from one surface of water to another: the other side is attached to a sheet of ice we’d erected on the surface.

Mirzayael surveys the table in the middle of the room, and I finish adding stone figures to the surface, each representing a troop of soldiers. Beryl is in a chair at the side of the table, but her eyes are closed, and her breathing is labored. Despite her insistence at being present, I’m not sure we will be able to count on her leadership.

“They’ll reach the entrance within the hour,” I say. “Though many appear to be hanging back. I suspect that’s due to what they know of my abilities: the crevasse I opened on them before.”

“It was a good strategy,” Nek says. “Any reason we can’t send them into a chasm again now?”

“No,” I say. “I plan to open with that. I’m waiting for them to gather closer, so they’re all within my range. Ideally, we can stop this battle before it even begins.”

“Ideally,” Mirzayael repeats, the word dripping with skepticism. “Things are never so easy. But I agree. It’s the best opening move.”

“After that, we should—”

“Something’s happening,” Torim interrupts. He leans over the scrying pool. “They’re activating some magic.”

I hurry over to look, too. The troops have peeled away to allow a group of unarmored people through. They’re all wearing thick, white robes, with the symbol of an eye stamped into the front. A few of them carry staffs; they’re all knelt along the ground, bare hands pressed to the ice.

“Mages,” I say as the ice lights up in an arora of colors as their magic penetrates the ground.

“What are they doing?” Torim asks.

“Let’s not wait and find out.” I dive into the Dungeon Core’s interface, the perception of my surroundings ballooning outward and rapidly spreading through the stone, the city, and the surrounding caves. By now every inch of the Fortress falls within the Dungeon Core’s range, all the Fog of War long since eaten away by my explorations. I press toward the surface, where stone gives way to ice.

Not the Core’s favorite to consume, but I’m not giving it much of a choice. I mentally trace the path where I want the chasm carved, right underneath the mages and surrounding troops, then loose the Dungeon Core to do what it does best.

Large swaths of stone vanish as the Core eats everything up, replacing tunnel systems and caves with nothing but emptiness. It moves to the ice at the same time, intending to eat that as well—but reels back as pain and distaste lance through us.

“Ah!” I flinch, the hurt echoed in my mind like the stab of a sudden headache.

[Authority to manipulate material denied,] Echo says. [Material is Attuned to a different mage.]

“What is it?” Mirzayael grabs my shoulder, then forcibly relaxes her grip. “Are you alright?”

“I can’t remove the ice they’re standing on,” I say, opening an eye and massaging my still throbbing forehead. “It’s Attuned. I think that’s what they’re doing to the ice.”

“Abyss take them,” Mirzayael growls.

“Clever,” Dizzi says. “Too clever. They’ve come prepared for you.”

“No matter,” I say, retreating fully from the Core’s interface. The psychic distance helps lessen the headache. “They’re still just a thin crust of ice away from falling into a void. Either we can wait for their troops to overwhelm its structural integrity, or we can try to disrupt it ourselves.”

“OH!” Ollie says. “ME! CAN I GO BREAK THROUGH THE ICE? IMAGINE THEIR FACES.” He giggles as his tail whips back and forth, and I mentally see an image of the dragon exploding up through the ground. “SURPRISE! IT’S ME AGAIN!”

Honestly, not the worst idea. But I don’t want to put Ollie in danger if I can avoid it.

“They’re moving,” Torim says.

My attention snaps back to the scrying glass. The mages have opened a hole in the ice, which would save us some time, except now they’re rappelling down into the caves. As soon as they pass out of sight of Torim’s scrying ice, they might as well be invisible.

“Crap.” I hurriedly tap into the Dungeon Core and frantically pan through the cave system. I can’t see the Jorrians themselves, but I might be able to determine their movements through the stones they disrupt. Right now, however, I can’t find anything. Maybe they haven’t reached the ground yet. I randomly grab a boulder from the wall in the chasm where I know they’re descending and yank it from its surface, launching it across the cavern. It passes through the air unhindered, crashing against the wall opposite. Then I grab both walls, and slam them together. Far below, I feel impacts on the ground, but whether it’s Jorrian or debris from the stone, I have no idea.

“I’m shooting blind,” I say to the others. “I’m not sure where they are or which way they’re going. We need eyes in the area.”

“I’ve set up a dozen other scrying panes in the tunnels,” Torim says, “but they’re stationary. Unless the Jorrians pass before them, I won’t know.”

“I can have my guards relocate them,” Mirzayael suggests. “Fyre? How long do you need?”

The Fortress is so close to being complete. At the rate I’d previously been going, it would take another four hours to finish converting the stone, readying it for the Fortress’s ascension. But we don’t have four hours. How long until the Jorrians make it to our doorstep? Perhaps two hours at most, assuming they get lost along the way. A half hour if they make straight for us.

“Can you buy me an hour?” I ask her. It would be rushing the final elements, but we don’t have a choice. “If you can keep them away from the Fortress for that long, we should be ready.”

“We’ll depart at once,” Mirzayael says. “We will set up a communication line and engage the enemy where necessary.”

“Be careful,” I call after Mirzayael as she turns to leave. I don’t want the sight of her walking away to be the last memory I have of her.

She looks back at me with a smile. “Do not worry for my well being. Things will unfold very differently this time. The Jorrians may rule the surface, but now we are in our domain.”

Then, she’s gone. Any more words I might have had for her die on my tongue. I hope she’s right. She better be.

“We need to prepare for phase three,” I say, turning to Dizzi. “Gather the harpies in the throne room as soon as possible.”

“Ay, Captain.” Dizzi sallutes and runs off as well.

I turn to Torim next. “While Mirzayael is leading in the field, I expect you to lead here.”

He raises a surprised bow. “You will not be taking that position?”

“I need to finish preparations for the Fortress,” I say. “And as you’ll be watching the scrying pool, you’ll have the most insight out of all of us on the state of the battle in the caves. Please direct the soldiers as you see fit.”

“Yes, Lord Fyre.”

My heart flutters at the title. Too close to The Dark Lord for my liking. Is this some sort of self fulfilling prophecy? Was I destined to this role, no matter what I did or how I approached it?

No, I can’t let myself believe that. Like Mirzayael said, the role is only about protecting my kingdom, and these people have done nothing wrong. They deserve protecting. If that makes me the bad guy, then I don’t want to be on the side of good.

I look to Beryl, who has remained quiet throughout the various orders I’d just distributed. I’d thought she’d fallen asleep, actually, but now I see her eyes are cracked open, carefully watching our war board.

“Elder Beryl?” I ask. “Do you have any suggestions?”

The dwarf grunts. “Nothing more than you all could suggest. Never was a fighter myself. And you seem to be well versed in strategy.”

“I appreciate and wish I could share your confidence in me,” I say. “But if you have no guidance…”

Beryl waves a dismissive hand. “I do not have the skills for this fight. You’re in command, Lord Fyre.”

I swallow down the nerves that threaten to flutter from my stomach. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.” Finally, I turn to the war table. “Ollie, go scout the tunnels, but do not engage. If you see any Jorrians, alert me telepathically and I’ll pass the message along. Torim, the same for you; contact me if they appear on any of your scrying disks. Beryl, if anyone comes looking for me, I’ll be in the throne room.”

“YAY, SPYING!” Ollie dives off the balcony and out of sight. The rest get to work as well.

In the throne room, some of the harpies have already begun to gather.

“Dizzi told us you needed us here,” one of them says. “What’s going on? Will we not be needed in the fight?”

“You will be,” I say. “It’s highly likely this battle will be decided by air superiority.”

“But we’re underground,” another objects. “We won’t have much opportunity to gain any height on the Jorrians, except for in caverns. With respect, Lord Fyre,” they hastily add.

“Pay no respects: speak to me bluntly,” I say, heading over to Fyreneth’s throne. “We can’t waste time on pleasantries in war, or afford to hold back an opinion that might save lives if spoken. But to address your concern, we will be dealing with much more open air than that found in tunnels and caverns. You all have an Air Affinity, yes?”

“Yes, that’s what Dizzi asked for when she sent us here,” a harpy says.

“Good. Then these will be your weapons.” I lead them to the side of the room where workbenches have been established. Every surface is covered in hundreds of baseball-sized orbs.

“Bombs?” one of the harpies asks.

“Exactly,” I say. “Dizzi and I have been working on these for a while now. We think we’ve perfected the formula. These weapons are highly combustible and designed to explode on impact, so I feel I must caution you all to do everything in your power not to drop any unintentionally.”

“But we’re underground,” another objects. “We can’t get enough space to use weapons like these.”

“Leave that part to me,” I say. “We’re going to need every flight-capable individual we have access to, so as much as this hurts to hear, I’d like to ask all of you to abstain from the fight until we’re ready to launch your platoon.”

“Is it true, then?” one of the younger harpies asks. “Will you be raising the Fortress today?”

After I’d discussed the possibility with the leaders, Beryl had insisted I raise the possibility with the rest of the population as well.

“It’s their home as much as mine,” she’d said. “The decision should be everyone’s.”

I’d only been hesitant to do the same because I knew how this would look. And as soon as the meeting was held, the decision had been unanimous. Even though I had emphasized it was merely a possibility, given enough time, and not a certainty, the people had still chanted my name. There would be no turning back from trying to dissuade comparisons to Fyreneth now.

“Yes,” I tell the harpy. “If the guards are able to buy me some time, we will restore her Fortress within the hour.”

Despite my qualifier, the harpies excitedly murmur to one another.

“We won’t let you down,” the harpy says.

And like the first night I’d broached my plan, they begin to cheer. “Praise Fyreneth! Long Live Fyre!”