“I can’t see anything,” murmured Jynn, glancing over a memo from Aya of Blades to the Order of the Moon. “Nothing relevant, anyway.”
“We don’t have long,” Laruna called back over her shoulder.
“More spiders?” asked Jynn.
“Well yes, but—” The pyromancer paused briefly to immolate an advancing spider. “But listen!”
Jynn tilted an ear. The palace was filled with the sounds of heroes at work; clanging steel, dying screams, and the gentle ringing of sacks of gold being hefted over meaty shoulders. Yet above the distant din, he could also hear a familiar voice lifted in manic soliloquy interspersed with triumphant, two-note bouts of laughter. “Ha haaaa!”
“They’re fighting Johan already,” said the omnimancer.
“Someone is,” Laruna agreed. “We need to hurry.”
“Right.” Jynn flipped through the file and tried not to think of the tantalizing secrets and forbidden knowledge dancing past his fingertips. “I’ve seen a few allusions to a letter that circulated between Win Cinder, Aya of Blades, and my father in the final days of the Leviathan Project.”
“And you’re sure it names whatever allied with Az’Anon?”
“No. Nothing I’ve read discusses the letter’s contents in any detail.” Jynn pursed his lips as he reached the end of yet another folder. He was almost through the file of canonical evidence. “But it’s the best lead I have. Assuming I can find it.”
“And fast.” Laruna fried another spider creeping from the shadows to a smoldering crisp.
Jynn paused at a letter bearing a few official seals. It wasn’t the letter; this one was addressed to a young King Handor, from High Priest Ayathan Ith’Issan. Jynn didn’t recognize the name, but the seals and sigils stamped all over the document in crimson and gold wax indicated that he was a very senior member of the inquisitorial arm of the Temple of Tandos, and Az’Anon’s name caught his eye. The letter began with the proper formalities addressing a king, followed by overwrought assurances that the king’s request for secrecy and discretion would be treated with the same obedience as scripture. But the passage that followed was more significant.
After careful inquiries and prayerful consideration, the Temple of Tandos has found that the allegations made by Win Cinder in the unfortunate letter you referred to me are undoubtedly false. The mages employed by your father may have believed their blasphemous allegations, but their reasoning is as flawed as the results of their so-called Leviathan Project.
Ask yourself this, Your Majesty: if our scriptures are all wrong and Az’Anon really consorted with such a being as his fellow necromancer alleged, could any hero ever have overcome the Spider King as Johan the Mighty did? We do not doubt our young champion’s power, but the answer is so obvious, the alternative so ridiculous, that we are certain you will reach the same conclusion as our holy inquiry.
We have burned our copy of the heretical mages’ writings and thank the holy warrior that your father saw fit to send the Heroes’ Guild after those dark and foul sorcerers. I understand that the laws of Mankind forbid your archivist from following our example, but I nonetheless implore you to direct him to treat Win Cinder’s missive as he would a sheet of disreputable propaganda or a scrap of trash. It is of no value to anyone.
“That’s it,” muttered Jynn. The Temple of Tandos’ denial of Win Cinder’s message held no weight for him, but their recommendation was an excellent clue as to the letter’s location. He pushed past the reams of paper to expose the very back of the drawer where, as per the custom of every Agekeeper and kingdom archivist in this hemisphere, a thick, red file sat behind the other folders. It held a sheaf of loose sheets and scribbled notes; some incoherent, some discredited, and some just not relevant enough to warrant a place in the official narrative, but all too valuable for any faithful keeper of records to throw away. Between a page of illegible shorthand and a sheet of fine vellum covered by a large tea stain, Jynn found a slim black envelope.
A distant shriek that could have been laughter or a scream rang out. “We need to hurry,” Laruna repeated.
Jynn licked his lips as he lifted the envelope. His hands trembled as he opened it and unfolded the thin parchment within. His hands were shaking violently by the time he reached the end of the note.
The pyromancer glanced back at the archmage. “Jynn?”
The archmage sucked in a breath and braced himself. Then he read the last passage again, wherein Win Cinder provided evidence to confirm the worst fears of Az’Anon’s compatriots in the Leviathan Project. Jynn’s stomach roiled and his knees were turning to jelly as he read the old noctomancer’s dreadful conclusion.
“What is it?” The concern was plain on Laruna’s face as she looked at the wizard.
The blood thundered in Jynn’s ears. His mouth was dry and his palms were damp. “We have to stop them,” he gasped. “We have to stop them now.”
Chapter 31
“You’re welcome to try.” Heraldin threw up his hands in exasperation. “There’s no talking to him when he gets like this.”
Gaist nodded as he stared into the maelstrom of steel and laughter that blew around Johan the Mighty, threatening to knock the king from his feet. Gorm moved too fast for even the weaponsmaster’s eyes to follow, a red and silver blur amid the dust; the best way to follow the berserker was to watch the sparks that erupted from the paladin’s enchanted armor with every axe blow. Johan screamed something, though the other heroes couldn’t hear it above the king’s laughter and the ringing of axe on plate mail.
“We’re supposed to be stalling!” Heraldin shouted above the din, but he knew it was pointless. If Gorm noticed the bard’s warning, it didn’t alter his furious course at all.
Gaist tried stepping into the berserker’s path, raising a palm to halt the Dwarf’s fury. The weaponsmaster’s cloak kicked up in a sudden rush a split second before another shower of sparks erupted from Johan’s vambrace; Heraldin couldn’t see if Gorm had dodged around the doppelganger or if Gaist had just miscalculated his trajectory. Gaist shifted his footing again, and again his cloak snapped back in the Dwarf’s wake. The weaponsmaster tried a third time, and then another, and soon he was leaping about as though part of some complicated dance with the berserker, but he could not intercept his friend.
Heraldin turned his focus to the paladin currently experiencing exactly the opposite problem. No matter where Johan dodged, no matter how fleet his steps, Gorm was already there when he arrived. Violet and aquamarine flashes—the bright flashes of dying spells—marked wherever the Dwarf’s cruel axe hacked against the paladin’s golden armor. The ensorcelled charms and wards were all that kept the paladin on his feet. Leaking motes of magic danced around the ruptured ley lines in the plate, making it clear that the enchantments couldn’t hold out for long.
Johan swayed to and fro, a gilt tree buffeted by an uncouth storm. The tattered remnants of his crimson cloak dangled from his back, and scraps of it pooled around him like the blood of a dying beast. The king opened his mouth to shout another challenge when a vicious blow ripped his entire left pauldron from him in a spray of sparks and ozone. He staggered back and swung his sword in the general direction of the attack, but Gorm was already gone. A heartbeat later, another strike brought colorful sparks erupting from Johan’s back, knocking him toward the yawning pit at the room’s center.
It was obvious that the king was losing ground. What was less obvious initially, but was becoming more and more undeniable, was that he was losing strength as well. Every slash of the axe, every missed parry, every swipe of the flaming sword through empty air; it all seemed to sap a bit of Johan’s might. His movement had been as fast as an adder earlier; now he stumbled about sluggishly, and seemed to struggle to lift his sword. Heraldin surmised that the paladin’s mind must have been addled as well; instead of watching for incoming blows, Johan was staring into nothing and shouting nonsense.
“No! It can still work! I can still find a—rgh!” The king choked on his protest as a hack of Gorm’s axe decapitated a decorative eagle emblazoned on his remaining pauldron. But he kept ranting in between blows. “There’s still time! When I beat them—argh! When I beat them, the people will thank—oof… There’s still time!”
Now the king was shrieking, his wails so loud and piercing that Heraldin almost didn’t hear the shouts from the hallway. He turned to see Jynn and Laruna sprinting into the chamber, their faces flushed and panicked. “Stop!” Jynn shouted. “Stop fighting!”
“Yes, we’ve been over that.” Heraldin gestured toward Gaist, who still ducked and rolled around the king in a futile attempt to intercept the berserker.
“You can’t…” Jynn doubled over, gulping for air. “You can’t kill him. Whatever you do, just don’t kill—”
He was cut off by a final-sounding chok. Bard and mages alike turned to the king, whose enchanted protections had finally succumbed to Gorm’s fury. A great gash rent Johan’s armor from where his left pauldron belonged to the opposite hip. Gorm landed in front of the king, eyes wild and axe bloody, still grinning and laughing like a madman.
Johan watched his life leak from the fissure in a flow of crimson and black. His mouth opened and closed as though trying to push out a word, but all that came out was a strained “hah” and a spray of blood and spittle. He dropped to his knees, and a final choking breath escaped his lips in a long, sighing, “Haaa.”
“No,” moaned Jynn, backing toward the door. “Oh no. No, no, no…”
“What?” Heraldin asked, unnerved by the archmage’s terror.
“This is bad,” said Laruna.
“What is?” demanded the bard, just as it dawned on him that the laughter echoing about the chamber wasn’t entirely Gorm’s anymore.
