Fionn smirked. Isolating the dead from the living was exactly what he wanted. He tugged on the power of his own soul, augmented with that of Sir Bearach’s, and set the valley alight. A thick ocean of flames flooded over the undead, giving those still fighting a chance to retreat.
“Get behind me,” roared Fionn as a Human soldier fell to the ground mere inches away from the flames. The Human looked up at the inferno with awe, slowing turning his gaze to Fionn’s hands.
Fionn took a step forward, channelling the flames towards the bulk of the horde. He didn’t turn to look, but he felt the presence of several more soldiers leaving the battle to stand behind him.
“Keep guard of my flank,” he shouted over his shoulder. Indeed, far off to the right, a cluster of more undead broke away from the horde to attack from the side.
As the men behind him readied themselves, Fionn hesitated, dimming the flames that burned the horde for a moment. With just another second’s thought, he pulled three streaks away from the bulk of the flames and sent them towards the coming undead. There was no use in risking more lives, he reckoned, given he was more than capable of taking on the horde alone.
You’re wasting energy, said Sir Bearach. If you tire yourself out too quickly, we’ll have no way to make it back to the gate.
I’m not going back, thought Fionn, clicking his flint-rings together again to add more flames to the horde. The thick scent of burning flesh washed over Fionn as he moved forward, but his attention was elsewhere. Narrowing his brow, he focused on the valley wall beyond the horde. I’m not going back until the rest of them are burned to ash.
Gods above and below, lad! swore the knight. Can’t you hear yourself? Don’t you know how many more are out there? This is only a fraction!
As they pushed further into the valley, a dozen or so more soldiers joined Fionn. Some limped with injuries, others were carried by their comrades, while a few seemed to be as near death as the wights themselves. Fionn produced another spark and set waves of fire to encircle the group.
As he tugged on the power of his soul, the familiar strain of fatigue crept over him.
There is still Bearach’s… Fionn thought, switching his focus from his own soul to the knight’s. Bearach didn’t make a response, though, and for this Fionn was glad. He didn’t need more interjections interrupting his focus.
“They’re retreating!” cried a voice from behind him. “They’re turning back!”
Fionn had barely noticed, but it was true. The dead no longer pushed against his flames. He picked up his pace, now giving the fleeing dead pursuit. With gallant cries of victory, the other soldiers followed.
“Aislinn!” Fionn cried, spotting the cluster of survivors on the far side of the valley. With the undead on the run, there was now nothing but scorched earth between his group and hers. Bewildered, Aislinn ran forward to meet Fionn, and the other soldiers cheered upon meeting one another.
Fionn extinguished his flames. With the thrill of the fight leaving him, the young mage fell to the ground, now only aware of how spent he really was.
“Fionn, are you alright?” Aislinn said, offering him a hand to stand up. “What’s the situation back at the gate?”
“Plackart sounded the retreat,” said Fionn. “He was forced to close the gate, locking the rest of you out. That’s why I came.”
“Firemaster Fionn,” said Aislinn with a smile. “I thought you were smarter than that. But I am eternally grateful for your reckless stupidity.”
“I learned from the most reckless of them all,” said Fionn. “You set the bar much higher when you rode out to meet the horde in Rosca Umhír.”
The two shared a laugh, but their joy was cut short when one of the soldiers let out a startled cry.
“The horde! They’re coming back!”
All heads turned to look down the valley. Just like before, a huge cloud of kicked-up dust came first, followed by the dead’s thundering footsteps.
“To me!” roared Fionn, quickly clicking his flint-rings together and pulling flames from the spark they produced. With a wide gesture, he created a massive wall of flames that swept from one side of the valley to the other.
They’ll have a hard time getting through this! cried Sir Bearach.
“The gate!” came another cry. “It’s opening! Plackart’s sending out another vanguard!”
Fionn didn’t turn to look, but a few startled cries indicated that the man’s words were true. If the Triad’s army was charging out to meet the dead again, the Commander must have seriously reconsidered his position in this battle.
It’s me, Fionn realised, adding more power to the wall of flames. The tide of this battle has changed because of me.
He raised his hands again to mould the fire, stretching the flaming wall even higher while making it thicker at the base.
But something else suddenly tugged against the flames. Another force, far stronger than his own, sent the fires crashing down. All around him, the flames extinguished themselves.
No, he cried, fighting hard to reach the rest of the flames before they died. It’s happening. It’s finally happening.
He raised his hand to click his flint-rings together, but instead felt a sharp pain run through his fingers. Screaming with agony, he raised his hand to find his middle and fourth finger swelling, turning from raw red to deep purple. At the base of both fingers, the flint-rings pressed against his skin, tightening with every passing beath.
Fionn fell to his knees, and merely watched as the last of his fires died before him. The throbbing pain of his fingers took on another level of intensity as the rings cut through his skin. Steel met bone, and Fionn’s voice went hoarse. The other soldiers could do nothing but watch as Fionn thrashed on the ground. With another searing pang, the flint-rings closed entirely, both falling to the ground as tight balls of steel, along with two bloodied, severed fingers.
As much as he tried to scream, no sound escaped Fionn’s lips. He cradled his mutilated hand against his chest as streams of blood poured from the open wound. He paid no mind to the horde that charged towards them, nor to the Triad’s army that was coming out to meet them. There was only one force capable of countering his Pyromancy like that. Only one force was capable of taking Fionn’s flint-rings away from him through Geomancy.
She’s here. Morrígan is here.
***
The elk’s hoofs thundered beneath Farris as they entered the Saltworks of Penance. Past rows upon rows of deserted buildings, they rode, Farris leading the charge with a raised halberd, and dozens of Churchguards and prisoners from the Basilica following behind.
Don’t let it be too late, prayed Farris. Skies above, don’t let me be too late.
The faint cries of battle rang out through the night, joined by the scent of smoke from somewhere near the city wall. A faint hue of blue and red rose up from where Farris reckoned the Saltgate must be, which caused him to kick his mount harder, hoping they still had time.
The Reapers will protect them. They could very well be our last hope.
The road opened into a wide square, where a battle raged on. Men and Simians ran back and forth, fighting off undead soldiers and skeletons that came towards the wall. Those behind Farris roared with valour as they charged into the fight, but something else had taken his attention.
