Zaxos arched one brow as he regarded her. “Explain.”
Vizra straightened, her posture fluid and sinuous. “We will employ a series of flanking maneuvers, striking at the enemy’s weakest points while luring them into our trap in the valley just outside of Drindal. In this way, we can decimate their forward guard before we even lay siege to the town, allowing us to delay the moment we dismantle their wards. It is a high-risk strategy, but the potential rewards are great.”
“And the source of this intelligence?”
Vizra’s glanced briefly toward Aric before she answered. “My agents have been working tirelessly to gather information from the human realm.”
Zaxos studied her with a low hum before turning his attention to Karthax. The ancient demon’s expression was unreadable, his obsidian eyes like shards of black glass. He said nothing, but a low growl rattled in his barrel of a chest.
“Very well,” Zaxos said. “I will hear this out.”
Vizra began to outline the details of her plan in a low, honeyed voice. Aric strained to hear, but it was difficult to focus, his mind filled with a turbulent mix of emotions. Flanking maneuvers. Surprise attacks. His gaze wandered to Malekith, whose hands were clenched at his sides, his face a mask. All, Aric realized with a shiver, signs of satisfaction papered over with a veneer of disdain.
Aric clenched his fists, the anxiety within him threatening to boil over. Vizra’s plan was playing directly into their hands, or at least, Aric hoped that was the case. She was reacting to what she believed was a trick by Malekith, only to do exactly as Malekith had hoped she would do. That had to be it—wasn’t it? But Aric couldn’t risk giving them any hint of his knowledge. He had to trust that Malekith had a plan to take advantage of this gift, that the prince was already several steps ahead.
When he glanced over at Malekith again, he found those dark eyes fixed on him, and the corner of Malekith’s mouth quirked up in a sly smile. Aric forced a matching smile onto his face, even as his heart raced with a heady mix of triumph and trepidation.
The Sovereign turned toward Malekith, and Aric shrank back in spite of himself. He might have been sizing up the prince, wondering what he would make of Vizra’s proposal. Was he fooled by Malekith’s gambit, as well? Or did he see it for what it was—his two chief commanders of this strike turning against one another when they should be united against their common foe?
Malekith stepped forward, his movements measured. “My lord,” he said, his voice carrying through the clearing. “I understand the importance of securing the vanguard, but I have concerns about Vizra’s plan.”
Zaxos gave a rumbling growl in response.
“I fear that our enemy might be prepared for such a tactic,” Malekith continued, his eyes never leaving Zaxos’s. “If they have taken any measures to counter our advance, we could be playing right into their hands.”
Aric held his breath as the Sovereign considered Malekith’s words. On the surface, it seemed like he was questioning the wisdom of Vizra’s strategy. But Aric knew that every word Malekith spoke was carefully chosen, a shadow play of double meanings and hidden intentions. Zaxos regarded Malekith with that unreadable, stony expression, and Aric felt a shiver run down his spine. This was it, the turning point they had been waiting for. If Zaxos saw through their ruse, it would all be for nothing. But if he bought into Malekith’s deception, then they just might have a chance.
The Sovereign inclined his head toward Vizra, and the tiniest of smiles played over her lips as she stepped forward. Aric’s stomach twisted with disgust—he could almost taste the sour thrill of Malekith’s reaction to her arrogance.
With a sinuous gesture, Vizra conjured a dark, shimmering portal in the air, the fiery runes of its power dancing like coiled snakes. “With your blessing, Sovereign,” she said, “we shall begin the ceremony to open the rift. But at the mountain clearing in my new proposal—not the southwestern field from Malekith’s plans.”
Zaxos regarded her for a long moment before giving a single nod. “You may. Proceed.”
Vizra briefly glanced toward Aric, her molten gold eyes glinting in the demonfire light. Triumphant. Aric shifted uncomfortably as she held his stare, taunting him, goading him.
Then, with a slow, elegant motion, Vizra sank to one knee at the base of the dais to cast the portal spell. Her slender fingers wove through the air, tracing out arcane patterns that glimmered and writhed like shadow-snakes. Aric watched, trying to make sense of both the magic behind it and the effect this change in plan would have on their first strike.
Malekith’s initial proposal had been to lure the forward-deployed human troops outside of Drindal so their combined forces could cull their numbers before then turning their attention to the town itself, dismantling its wards in the process. But if Aric understood the papers he’d found in the library correctly, Malekith was secretly planning to advance his troops ahead of Vizra’s, allowing him to take the lead, and cutting Vizra off from his valuable support during that initial battle—and push straight onward to the town itself as soon as it was secured.
Now, Aric gathered, to prevent Malekith from embarrassing her forces, Vizra seemed intent on changing their deployment closer to Drindal so an early victory against the human vanguard would allow her to proceed straight to the wards and the town itself. But Aric knew that play was far riskier—and might run their forces right up against the wards far sooner than they intended. Before they were truly ready to set about dismantling them.
It was foolish, Aric knew, to hope that either option would minimize human casualties to the extent he wanted. But maybe, just maybe, the chaos and friction between the two demonic forces would give the humans of Drindal a fighting chance.
“Great forces of the void, hearken to my call,” Vizra intoned, her voice low and seductive as she worked the portal spell. “With blood and fire, I beckon thee.”
The very air seemed to warp and twist as Vizra’s power coalesced, sending ripples of raw energy coursing through the clearing. The demons around them shifted and murmured, their forms blurring and doubling in the reflections cast in the well of black flames.
“Why expend so much magical effort on the portal?” Aric asked Malekith under his breath.
“For the element of surprise. Of course,” Malekith said, a hint of amusement coloring his voice, “trying to open one too close to the human wards is likely to interfere somewhat with the spell.”
Vizra’s voice rose in a lilting chant, the words twisting and contorting, and the rift began to pulse and throb in time with her song. The stench of sulfur and brimstone filled the air, making Aric’s head swim, and the ground beneath his feet quaked as if the very earth was rebelling.
As the rift widened, the fetid stink grew, filling the clearing with a noxious haze. Vizra’s words rose to a fevered pitch, her power radiating out in a searing wave. The other demons were gathered around the portal, feeding their own dark magic into the maelstrom, the air vibrating with the combined force.
Aric took a step back, the heat of the rift scorching his face. It was like staring into the heart of a furnace, the raw power of the void threatening to consume him. The army had begun to chant, their voices rising in a tumult of otherworldly sounds, and the ground was quaking, making it hard to focus. All he could see was that yawning tear in the air, readying their forces so the demonic armies could spill through.
But Malekith moved forward, toward the gathered demons, and with a shock, Aric realized he was moving with them, into the circle of their dark magic. A sharp intake of breath was all he allowed himself as Malekith’s hand brushed against his own, the thin black leather of his gloves like the electric charge dancing over Aric’s skin. Without a word, Malekith guided him into position beside him.
“Come,” Malekith said. “Let us be ready.”
Aric nodded, mouth too dry for words. His blood was singing, the rush of it in his veins like a fever, and he struggled to focus on anything but the ripple of demonic energy that was now growing into a tidal wave. But as Malekith nodded toward the portal, Aric forced himself to look.
The rift was a seething mass of darkness, twisting and writhing. Vizra’s voice rang out, a high, keening cry, and Aric felt a sudden pressure in the air, like the world was being squeezed in a vise. The stink was overwhelming, making his eyes water and his lungs burn.
Aric’s training as a mage honed in on the subtle shifts of Vizra’s spellcraft and malevolent undercurrent to her aura. But what truly set his senses humming was the faint thrum of darkness and illusion he sensed Malekith weaving around the edges of the portal. It was so subtle, the barest whisper of shadow, and it would have been all too easy to miss it, swept up in the spectacle of Vizra’s magic.
At first, that was all he thought it was: Malekith supporting the flow of Vizra’s dark magic. A darker counterpoint to the energy she was drawing from the other demons, guiding its course. But as Aric continued to observe, he caught the subtle twists and turns he was feeding into the rift. Imperceptible adjustments that only Aric could sense. His heartbeat quickened as he realized what it was.
Malekith was siphoning energy from the portal.
It was a breathtaking display of finesse and control, the likes of which Aric had never seen. Vizra’s spell was a blunt instrument, raw power tearing a hole in the fabric of reality. But Malekith’s magic was a scalpel, deft and precise. He was weakening the rift ever so slightly, and if Aric was right, it would all but ensure the rift was highly unstable at the new location so close to Drindal’s wards.
The rift tore open wide, and the air crackled with eldritch energy as its edges shimmered.
“Armies of the Demon Realm. Of House Darioth. Of House Ixion.” Vizra stepped back, chest heaving with exertion. “Advance!”
The ground shook with the force of the demons’ howls, and then they were on the move.
The sounds of the demon army surged forward, a wave of darkness and malice. Vizra roared as she urged her fellow demons forward. “Move!” Malekith shouted, his hand closing around Aric’s arm in a vise-like grip. “It’s time.”
Aric’s heart was pounding in his ears as he allowed Malekith to guide him forward, Malekith parting the sea of demons with the sheer force of his presence. He conjured a skeletal steed that surged up beneath them, allowing them to ride as one on its ungainly back. Aric wrapped his arms tight around Malekith’s waist as he hung on for dear life. They were far from the front of House Ixion’s forces—General Vezara was leading the charge—but still Aric braced himself for a strike.
The rift was an all-consuming maw now, hungry and vast, and the stench of sulfur was overpowering, burning the back of Aric’s throat. The ground trembled beneath his feet as they made their way toward it, and the air was thick with raw, searing power. The other demons surged forward, a relentless tide, and Aric was swept along in their wake, Malekith and a group of elite guards surrounding him on all sides.
The rift was pulling at Aric, drawing him in with its siren song of darkness and power. Despite the danger, despite the stakes, there was something undeniably thrilling about being so close to it. He could feel the raw magic of the void, taste the power that pulsed within it. It was a heady, intoxicating rush, and for a moment, Aric understood the demons’ hunger for this—this raw, unfiltered force that promised to reshape the world.
Aric stole a glance at Malekith’s face, but it was a mask of icy composure as he studied the rift. Aric wished more than anything that he could hear Malekith’s thoughts, know what the demon prince was planning in this moment.
Before he could fully comprehend the magnitude of what was happening, their steed galloped into the rift.
And his world exploded into chaos.
The air around him fractured and splintered, shards of raw magical force ripping through the space between one second and the next. The rift howled, a maddening cacophony that tore at his mind and shredded his thoughts to ribbons. Blinding light seared his eyes, but when he looked away, an impenetrable darkness swallowed him whole. He was being stretched and compressed, pulled in a hundred different directions at once, and for a horrifying moment, he thought he might tear apart at the seams.
He lost all sense of up or down, the ground vanishing from beneath his feet. He was weightless, adrift in a sea of chaos, his senses overwhelmed by the roiling maelstrom around him. The stench was a noxious cloud that clung to his skin, and the air was so thick with dark magic that it was hard to breathe.
Through it all, one thing remained constant: the steady presence of Malekith before him.
