Chapter 29: - The Last Spell

  Exia thought he could see all of Lyubov from here—standing on the roof of Bezdna palace truly did bring a kind of beauty to the world. A beauty he had long since lost touch with. A beauty that even now he could not truly appreciate.

  He could see the Zimya ball from here—lights burning bright in the dark rainy night of Bessmertnyy’s capital.

  He had gone there to clear his mind, to do anything but wallow alone in his room—instead what he found left him desperate for the semblance of peace that his loneliness had afforded him.

  Ksenija…

  The name made his heart throb in agony.

  He hadn’t expected her to be there; he hadn’t expected any of that to happen. If he had even the slightest inkling that it might, he would have fled in the opposite direction of the ball and not stopped until his legs stopped working.

  A whole crowd of people. Not one of which would have hesitated to use even a single sign of his and Ksenija’s relationship to get at him in whatever way they could.

  Was this what his life was destined to be? An endless pit of loneliness—cursed to see those he loved resent him, hate him, loathe him, and not even afforded the decency of giving them an explanation.

  You did the right thing…

  He reminded himself…and yet he found one burning fact hissing into his mind.

  If this is what doing the right thing is…I don’t want to live and do it again.

  Exia took one more step on the roof. He was on the edge now, gazing down at the memories beneath—the garden, the wall where Father and Mother met their ends. He could hear their screams, he could hear Volkov’s words, he could taste the scent of gunpowder in the air.

  It was in that same garden that he had promised to avenge them.

  I’m sorry Father. I’m sorry Mother. I’m not strong enough.

  Exia felt a wetness on his cheeks, warm where the pouring rain was cold. He was crying. Like a boy, not a King. Because in the end that was what he was, and he had finally come to accept it.

  For a long moment there was only the strangled sound of his sobs and the roaring rain screaming in his ears.

  Then they all seemed to vanish.

  Exia leaned forwards, felt the air kiss his face, the wind roar past his ears, the ground begin racing towards him, and then a hand around his ankle.

  His fall was halted, Exia felt his heart hang. He looked up to see Navtej dangling from the roof by one hand and holding Exia by the other. The boy’s eyes were burning with urgency. “Grab the ledge!” he roared, hand slipping just an inch.

  “Let go, Nav!” Exia screamed at him.

  “Grab it!” Nav insisted, pushing through his words like they were never even spoken. His hand slipped one more deadly inch off the roof.

  “Let me go, you stupid bastard! You’ll die if you don’t!” Exia cried. He felt his heart racing, fear bubbling—none for himself.

  “I do not care!” Navtej claimed.

  “I care!” Exia protested. “Just leave me Nav! I….I don’t want to go on anymore,” he said and knew those words were true. He had never said truer words. “I’m so…so…tired.” he admitted, feeling the tears run up his head now, dripping off his forehead.

  Navtej held onto his words, and there was silence between them. He saw Nav look into his soul and know and see Exia’s sorrow. “I am sorry Exi, but I am not letting go of my brother.” And then his hand slipped, and they were falling.

  “No!” Exia grabbed the ledge.

  Navtej tightened his grip on him, the pair hung off the side of the wall, only a piece of architecture keeping them from death.

  Together, they climbed back onto the roof.

  Exia collapsed onto his back, rain pouring, heart screaming. He turned, saw Navtej laying next to him—chest rising and falling rapidly, breath heavy with each moment.

  He almost died…Exia realised, and when confronted with the reason Exia found words a distant thing. “You…you really weren’t going to let me go…” his voice was a tiny squeak, his hands were still shaking, heart still thundering.

  Navtej met his eyes now and Exia found that they burned with an intense certainty. “Of course not…brothers forever.”

  Exia turned, gazed up at the pouring skies, the countless stars and the bleeding white moon. “Brothers forever…” he echoed, and knew he had spoken truth. He had never said truer words.

  ###

  Exia set eyes on the enemy.

  Slash to the chest, stab through the shoulder, and several other minor cuts. Duke Ludwig was injured, far from peak condition, and probably poisoned by Ksneija. But that didn’t even come close to guaranteeing Exia a victory. As things were, the battle was still squarely in Ludwig’s favour.

  And from the way he grinned, he knew it. “The boy King appears!” The Duke laughed—body still burning with energy—and then his eyes coalesced into a gaze of malice and machinations. “I am going to—”

  Exia waved a hand and cold fire pounced on the enemy—he didn't much care what Ludwig had to say. He had to die, and it was Exia’s number one priority to ensure that happened. More important than his taunts, more important than breathing, more important than living.

  Ludwig met his stream with one of his own—cyan where Exia’s was blue. They clashed with the sound of thunder, struggled for a moment and it was clear whose might was superior within an instant.

  Exia’s boots slid back against the cobbled road as Ludwig’s energy pressed further and further.

  Shadow of Zcigmagus: Burst!

  The world slowed and Exia quickened. He killed his flames, leapt to the side and dashed at Ludwig.

  The Duke waited for his approach, certain that his might would prove superior in a clash of fists. Exia was certain as well, which was why he had no machinations of letting it be proven.

  Hand of Zcigmagus: Entropy!

  Death erupted from Exia’s palms as four blue limbs. They wrapped around the Duke’s arms, and like Exia expected, the enemy tugged on them.

  Fracture!

  The limbs shattered into thousands of sharp projectiles, many burying themselves into the Duke’s form—some finding a home in already open wounds.

  The enemy shrieked, stumbled back, eyes shut, and face twisted in agony.

  Now, Exia covered the distance between them, leveled an open palm at the Duke’s face and poured all he could into the fire that erupted from his gloves. Breath of Zcigmagus: Stream!

  The world flashed a bluish white and Exia saw the target tear through air like a bullet. Duke Ludwig crashed into the ground and churned up dirt as his form was buried into the road. His momentum died in a steaming heap of earth and stone. Cobbles were melting where his burns pressed against them.

  Exia knew that, were the Duke not already injured, the man would never have been sluggish enough to strike in such a way. But as things were the enemy was bathed in the full wrath of Zcigmagus’s Breath.

  Exia heard the old god laugh—and knew it was not at the Sorcerer. It found the thought of him winning this amusing. As far as the Abyssal God was concerned, Exia might as well be a dead man.

  Duke Ludwig picked himself up from the dirt, smoke oozing from his skull, deep burns along his face, and with a rage across his features that seemed more a scar than any of those injuries could ever hope to leave.

  Exia knew one thing clear as day now: the Duke was done playing with his food.

  Duke Ludwig pointed his hands to the sky, brought them down and Exia leapt to the side, narrowly dodging the rain of energy that slammed into the earth, rendering stone into pieces below the scale of human sight with sheer kinetic energy.

  He rolled to his feet to find a bolt tearing through the air. He tried to twist out of the way—it struck him across the jaw, knocking the balance out of him and shattering his teeth.

  Ludwig came with more magic, birds, streams, and bolts. Many struck, sending Exia off his feet and pummeling him out of his senses.

  His head was swimming, his body screaming, the Sorcerer killing.

  Exia met him with magic of his own, Bladed tentacles, chilling flames, and everything in between. The Duke’s magic just kept on coming, overcoming Exia’s skill with the raw power difference between them. He was a fencer facing up against a raging bull. The victor was decided before their battle began.

  Something turquoise struck Exia in the chest, took him off his feet and buried him deep into the dirt. He stopped, coughing, groaning and impossibly certain of his death.

  Exia pulled himself up from the dirt on shaky feet for the nth time this battle, all the while knowing he’d be put back into it once again. And eventually, permanently. He coughed, groaned, and winced. Was that a broken rib he felt moving around?

  “So…this is it then…I just lose, and lose and lose….” his voice was a shaky thing, weak. He turned a strained neck behind to set eyes on Ksenija’s unconscious form. He was the only thing standing between her and death. Exia’s eyes fell once more on the Duke. “No…Not this time…” he whispered, pulled trembling hands up in a pair of fists and roared hoarsely enough to tear his throat. “If you want to take her from me too, you're going to have to kill me!”

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  The Duke looked at him as if he was mad, because in truth he was. There was a fascination in his eyes. “They say when a man stands in the veil between life and death, he converses with the gods. Tell me, King Exia Vanfoster, are they ready to welcome you?”

  “Yes.” Exia’s arcane limb came for the enemy once more. It shattered in front of him, exploding into sharp projectiles. The Duke saw it coming this time, raising a hand to block the shards from his eyes—defending himself successfully, but also obstructing his field of view. Such counters were predictable, and learning how men reacted to learning your tricks was among the basic tenets of Magery. It was good, then, that this barbarian appeared so very short of basic.

  Exia came at him, closing the distance between him and the Sorcerer—not because he was certain in victory this way, but because a ranged affair had only resulted in failure.

  Drain. And the smoke crackled, seeping away at the Duke’s might. Slow. And the enemy’s motions were sluggish. Shroud! And the Smoke leaking out of Exia turned more opaque, enveloping both him and the Duke. But only one of them could see the other. Blade! The Tentacle emerged as a cruel, sharp limb.

  Exia swung it at the Duke’s neck, questing to end the mans’ life. Ludwig slammed his palms together and a wave of cyan erupted out of them, blasting out in all directions and setting the air alight with the scent of magic.

  Exia stumbled back, felt the smoke retreat from him—for a moment, but a moment was enough to reveal his position to the Duke. The man’s fist came down like a hammer.

  Exia twisted out of its path, felt the knuckles brush against the tip of his nose and stabbed the blade into the flesh and bone of his enemy’s knee.

  The Duke spat magic and pained curses, and Exia dodged once more. He thought of nothing but winning, nothing but killing. After that he could die. After that he could rest in the mud forever. He just had to kill make one more person join him.

  Exia pummeled the enemy with flaming fists, battering the Duke’s form as if he were tempering steel. The Duke only knew where he was by where Exia struck from, other than that, he was attacking blindly. That combined with the injury in his shoulder from Ksenija, and the one Exia had dealt to his knee, slowing the monster, blunting its fangs, weakening its rage. Leaving it beatable.

  Exia just had to ensure he didn’t grant him even a moment to call on his spells.

  Exia swung a jagged tentacle at the enemy’s throat. The attack bit into a muscled arm rather than arterial meat. The Duke moved to grab Exia with his good arm. Exia moved back, retreating deeper into the shadows, but not quickly enough to avoid a grip like an industrial machine locking around his wrist.

  Pain hissed into Exia’s skin as the cyan energy burned into him.

  The Duke pulled his arm back—the injured one—and plunged it through the air, racing for Exia’s gut. Exia could only raise an arm to block, he felt the fist thunder into his limb, numbing the thing dead with its impact.

  Exia heard the agony in his own cry, he felt it once more in the blow that came next—each one sluggish and weak compared to what a Sorcerer of his Magnitude might have been able to unleash if unharmed, yet still powerful enough to leave Exia’s world spinning.

  Ludwig hammered into him, over, and over, and all Exia could do was raise his fists and desperately weather the attacks.

  Ludwig grabbed Exia by both wrists, spread them apart with his might and brought his head slamming down into Exia’s face. He saw white, then red, and felt the warmth of blood run down his forehead. And before he could begin to gather his wits the man’s skull came down hard on him again and again, again until Exia was pouring blood from burst lips and opened flesh.

  “Do you have any words now, Mage?!” The Duke roared madly, voice tinged with delight. He leaned in so their faces were but inches apart and Exia could see the mangled flesh where blue fire had met his skin. Peeling, strips jutting out and dangling off.

  “No,” Exia wheezed. The Duke was simply more powerful than he was. All Exia had was skill, an attunement to the god he served and the gifts he wielded that made him [Mage]. Ludwig did not have that. He was not [Sorcerer]. He was a child wielding a weapon. A dangerous child, a terrifying child. But a child nonetheless. And Exia was still [Mage].

  Stream!

  The flames came, not from his palms—for those were held apart by his enemy—they came forth from his mouth, erupting as if from the maw of a great wyrm. The fire was blue, blinding, and before Exia could deal any more damage, Ludwig had flung him into a wall.

  Exia hit the building hard, and the poor structure died instantly. He groaned, the sound smothered by collapsing walls and crushing rubble as all the aches in his frame flared up at once. Slowly, he pulled himself up to his feet and cautiously he watched his opponent through the flattened structure’s ruins.

  Ludwig was on a knee; he’d killed what had remained of the blue fire, and now just knelt there, still as a statue.

  Stay down… Just stay down…

  But he didn’t. The Duke pushed himself up on his feet, and glared at Exia—with one eye rather than two. The other organ had become a melted mess. He was heaving, chest raising high and falling low, still pouring blood from Ksenija’s blows, and still limping from the wound in his knee. But he wasn’t down yet… And Exia had few tricks left and fewer still fumes to run them on.

  “Cute,” the Duke spat, literally spat, and it was a bloody expectoration.

  Exia’s mouth was burnt raw. Conducting the arcane in unconventional forms was something even the strongest of Mages often died without learning. Even of those who did, few managed it without hurting themselves. That Exia did not have half his jaw melted meant he’d gotten the best possible outcome out of the affair. And yet it still wasn’t enough.

  His opponent still approached, face burnt, body bleeding, clothes tattered–he looked like a man who had died and clawed his way out of the dirt.

  Exia wondered if he looked the same. No, he decided. He most likely looked worse. A man merely halfway through clawing free from his grave but was soon to collapse back into it.

  Exia raised shaky hands. Ludwig Swung. Exia dodged, dodged, dodged—slipped—was struck in the ribs, felt something crack under the impact, screamed, and met Ludwig’s good knee with his face in a wicked snap.

  Exia went reeling back, blood pouring—new or old he couldn’t tell. He just wanted to lay down. He just wanted to rest. But the enemy kept on coming.

  Ludwig stretched out his palm, Exia ducked, and the wall behind him exploded as the Duke’s energy tore straight through it. He sprinted at the noble, ducked under his fist and met him with a blow to the liver.

  Exia heard the noble cry out, felt Ludwig’s body fold around his knuckles and slammed an elbow into the back of his head. Bone met bone and Ludwig met the ground.

  Stay down!

  But he was up again, arm wrapped around Exia’s throat, driving him backwards and pinning him against the wall. Exia kicked, punched, and spat, but the Duke only squeezed harder .

  The pounding in Exia’s head got louder, and louder, his vision growing foggier around the edges. The burning energy wrapped around Ludwig ate greedily into Exia’s skin. And Exia thought that he was so, so tired. That perhaps he might just rest; might let this man be the one who killed him—who put this nightmare to an end.

  But it was not time for him to rest just yet.

  Blade!

  The tentacle emerged—slowly this time, as Zcigmagus’s magic favour was near-finished. He plunged the weapon into Ludwig’s neck. The Duke twisted so the blue blade cut through flesh but not an artery.

  He loosened his grip in the struggle and Exia rolled out of the hold.

  He went stumbling back, coughing blood and wincing the moment he did.

  Ludwig was cupping his neck and blood poured from the side of it. But he wasn’t down. He was never down. He couldn’t be killed. Still standing, still mad with anger, and still coming for Exia. He couldn’t be fucking killed.

  The Duke called on his magic and Exia saw it take a moment to coil around his fingers. Perhaps he should have found solace in knowing they were both running low on power . But Exia found none.

  Only dread, and only an enemy once more. An enemy who wasn’t human, and would never die.

  Ludwig roared, swung. Exia ducked—too slow—the Duke’s fist met his face with a wicked crack and sent him stumbling.

  Exia raised a palm to the Sorcerer. Strea—Ludwig grabbed his fingers and twisted them wrongly. There was a sickening crunch, and then a cry, a tortured one—Exia’s. “Stream!” he roared it this time.

  The fire erupted from his palm—his good one, and Exia put everything he could behind it. It bathed the monster’s face in blue death and sent him hurtling back once more. The Enemy hit the ground back first and slid to a stop.

  Exia watched Ludwig lay there, motionless, head covered in burning flames, body leaking blood onto the white stone. Don’t get up…Don’t get up… Each breath felt like needles stabbing into his lungs; the world was darkening at the edges of his vision. And his fingers, gods his fingers. They hung uselessly from his palm at wrong angles, bits of bone jutting out in a dozen places along each one, stabbing pain into him with every minor motion. Don’t get up…

  Ludwig brought a hard hand on his face, killing the flames with one motion. The Duke crawled onto his feet, smoking and hissing, like a creature rising from the depths of hell. The cyan magic that coiled around him died—further evidence of his drained power. But he was still standing. He didn’t even say anything—just looked at Exia with a face scarred and enraged. And then again he began coming—like he always did, like he always would. Not a man, a thing.

  Some of Exia’s gifts had died as well—his shadow and flames to be exact—his head was swimming, and he could feel his body mere moments away from collapse. From death in this case. No… He tried to take a step forwards, and instead just stumbled backwards and lurched.

  Ludwig kept on coming.

  “No! You don’t get to die like this!” Exia roared through bloodied, shattered teeth and lips. “You get the job done, you get this job done! Do you hear me? This fucking job!” His head still swam—he could feel his vision fading.

  Ludwig kept on coming.

  “I said. No! You stupid fucking useless worm! You do this—this—you make this right, do you fucking hear me!? You do this one fucking good thing in your miserable existence of a life!” Exia slammed fist into his face, and then again, and again, and again. If his body didn’t listen to him, then it’d listen to the pain. And it did. Just for a bit, just for now, the darkness cleared, the world slowed. He had a moment left to fight and he would use it.

  Ludwig kept on coming.

  And Exia did too.

  Exia swung first—leaning into the enemy’s blindspot and striking him with his one good hand. Blood erupted from the Sorcerer’s mouth and Exia felt teeth dislodge against his knuckles.

  The Duke tried to grab him. Exia wrestled his way free through desperation and frictionless blood-slick skin.

  The Duke grabbed him again. Exia wrestled free once more.

  Again. And this time Exia could not push out of his grip.

  The enemy had two hands. Exia had one. The victor was clear.

  Duke Ludwig wrapped Exia in a bearhug and brought his skull down hard against his face. The first one turned the world white, the second one turned Exia’s hearing off, and the third one Exia might have missed while unconscious.

  Blade! He tried, but the god’s magic was laboured in coming, and Exia knew this would be the last spell Zcigmagus granted him. Today, and if things continue as they were, for the rest of his life.

  The Duke pulled his head back.

  The blade emerged.

  And the enemy slammed his skull right into the sharp blue protrusion that stuck out of Exia’s face.

  The attack went straight through the Duke’s ruined eye, perhaps to his brain—ideally to his brain—but Exia could not know.

  The Duke’s arms went slack.

  Exia fell from his grip and landed back-first.

  Ludwig went stumbling back—two steps, four steps, five, then he lurched, and met the ground with the sound of thunder.

  Don’t get up…Don’t get up…

  And there was silence, and hope, and silence, and pain, and silence, and a tiredness that Exia knew he could fight no more. And then there was no silence.

  Ludwig twitched first. Then rolled, then clambered up to his feet—bleeding gash in his already ruined eye—soul still in his body. He limped towards Exia, groaning all the way—more like a beast than a man.

  Exia tried to crawl to his feet, slipped back down and fell on a knee. He felt the absence of Zcigmagus, only pain and agony kept him company now. And they were no company at all. Get up, get up, get up! He slammed a fist into his useless thigh. But his body had already had enough of his torture.

  And Ludwig kept on coming. Limping, and groaning, and enraged. And he could do nothing, nothing at all.

  “Stop!” Exia raised a hand up. He was begging, like a child, like a coward, like a man who wanted dearly to end the fight. “Stop! Please! I can’t go on. I’m tired. I’m so, so tired of fighting. And I don't want to lose. And I can’t lose. Just once. I can’t lose, just this once!”

  Ludwig kept on limping.

  The man stopped when he was in front of Exia. Cyan death began coiling in his palm. He pointed it down at him.

  Exia kept his arm raised—a feeble thing that would surely be torn apart by the attack. “Please…” he whispered. And saw no sympathy in his killer.

  The magic in Ludwig’s palm grew and grew and grew. And then Duke Ludwig—the butcher of towns and cities—lurched forwards, hit the ground shoulder-first, and landed on his back.

  There, he laid, motionless.

  But Exia was certain he would stand once more. Ludwig wasn’t human, and could not die.

  He watched the man’s chest like it was death itself.

  Fall. And rise.

  Fall. And rise.

  Fall. And rise.

  Fall. And…

  Nothing.

  The Duke just laid there. Still, breathless, dead? Was he truly dead? Exia watched the man’s chest for what felt like minutes—deathly certain that it would rise again, or that the Duke would come crawling at him even with lungs that no longer worked.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  The Duke was dead. And Exia still lived. Ksenija still lived.

  “I…I…win,” he whispered, and felt his voice break. There was a warmth running down his cheeks now—tears—pouring and flooding. “I win! I win! I win! I win!” he roared, and with a strangled voice, and eyes on the Duke, continued. “You don’t get to take this from me…Just this once. Just this once. I win.”

  And though there was a battle at the other end of the city, Snegovetska was silent as death. Save from the sounds of a sobbing King.