Gorm grimaced. “Ye sure?”
“Yes.” Jynn kept weaving, sorcerous runes dancing from his fingertips and melting into the door like snowflakes. He turned from his work to call over his shoulder. “And Laruna?”
The pyromancer looked at Jynn uncertainly.
“I always loved you,” the archmage said, then turned back to the door as if to leave it at that.
“Gods,” Laruna growled, rolling her eyes as she turned back to Jynn. “Go on, Gorm. We’ll hold him here.”
Gorm only paused for a moment, then nodded. “Thank ye.” They wouldn’t have made it this far had it not been for Heraldin and Gaist’s sacrifices, and it would take more than even that to get to the Pinnacle. A party wipe and the fate of the world hung in the balance as he raced up the stairs.
“You have some sense of timing, Jynn Ur’Mayan,” Laruna said as Gorm’s footfalls receded. “Now? After all the times you passed this conversation by, now you want to talk?”
Jynn’s lips curled up in a small, sad smile. “Well, it—”
The wall shuddered as Mannon collided against the door. Jynn’s runes flared with aquamarine light under the impact, but the spell held and the door remained shut.
“It doesn’t seem we’ll get another chance,” the wizard finished.
Laruna joined him at the wall, adding her own weaves to the wards he’d set over the door. The portal reverberated and flashed again as Mannon heaved his unholy bulk against the doorway. “I wish things had been different,” she said.
“I wish I had been,” sighed Jynn, still weaving. “I should have told you, Laruna. I should have said many things long ago. I’ve always hidden things from you; my heritage, my omnimancy, my feelings—I always had some excuse for why sharing my life with you wasn’t necessary. And yet I’d get so angry when my father kept things from me, and I’d take every secret as a rejection.”
“The wards won’t hold long,” said Laruna. Mannon slammed against the vault door again, rattling the walls and bringing powdered mortar and stones raining down from the ceiling. A couple of runes flared and flickered out.
“It’s easy to spot your parents’ flaws. It’s much harder to avoid inheriting them,” said Jynn, replacing the lost runes. “I should have told you I loved you. I should have fought to keep you. I should have done so many things differently. But I’m grateful I still have a chance to fix one of my mistakes.”
He smiled at her. “You make me want to be a better person.”
Tears like diamonds gleamed at the corner of her eye. “All of my happiest memories are with you.”
The omnimancer turned his attention back to the groaning doorway. “I’m glad that in the end, I let you know how I feel.”
The wards on the door flickered and sizzled like roaches in a lightning trap. Iron and stone groaned under the massive pressure of Mannon’s will. Black and green ooze burbled between the stones of the wall, shorting out more enchanted wards in bursts of amber sparks.
“This isn’t how to do it!” Laruna said.
“Delaying Mannon or talking about my—” Jynn began, leaning on the Wyrmwood Staff as he stood.
But he didn’t get to finish. Laruna grabbed him and pulled him into her, pressing her lips against his so forcibly that he couldn’t have resisted if he wanted to. The pyromancer wrapped one arm around Jynn, pulling him closer, and she intertwined the fingers of her other hand with those on the omnimancer’s skeletal hand. Jynn felt the warmth and the heat rising in him, threatening to overtake him.
And then she began to channel.
If Laruna’s wrath was a bonfire, her love was like a sun. Flames poured from the hand that held Jynn’s, burning away the wizard’s glove and exposing the skeletal digits underneath. The fire bloomed and engulfed both the mages, and yet still more magic flowed through the pyromancer, burning, urgent, all-consuming. Jynn felt noctomantic power surge through the Wyrmwood Staff, the artifact desperately working to prevent the tide of unrestrained solamancy from overwhelming its master. Tears filled his eyes, though he couldn’t tell if they were from joy or agony as the sorcery threatened to pull him apart.
Laruna pressed her body even closer to his and moved her hand from his fingers to clutch his wrist. “Weave,” she murmured, without taking her mouth from his.
“Mmmpth,” agreed Jynn. He had a vague idea of what to cast, but it was almost impossible to craft a spell while distracted by the heat of Laruna’s sorcery and the softness of her lips. A memory of his father’s work crystallized amidst the heat and fire, and he began to work it into the rising spell. His fingers danced and his hand rose, weaving threads of shadow from the staff into a matrix of the pyromancer’s flames. Still embracing her, still locked in a kiss, he lifted their hands to focus the weaves. The threads of magic above them wove into a complex structure that bent the magic around itself and amplified it into a cyclone of flame and darkness.
A plume of fire and molten stone erupted from the grounds of the Palace of Andarun, transforming the eastern tearoom and surrounding garden into a pillar of light and heat. It rose high over the palace, an obelisk of flame that towered over the city and drew frightened screams as far away as the Base and the Riverdowns.
Duine Poldo only paused long enough to glance at the conflagration rising from the palace. He couldn’t tell whether the blaze boded well or ill for Gorm and his companions, but his eyes kept flitting back to the slate where the Wood Gnomes tracked the stock transfer in white chalk. The meter indicated they were just over two-thirds done.
His eyes met Feista Hrurk’s across the trading floor. Their efforts to move an entire economy a step sideways would be for naught after the palace quest was complete, and their time was growing short. Gorm and his party had their part to do; those on the Wall had to do theirs. “Faster!” Duine cried, attacking his paperwork with renewed vigor as Mrs. Hrurk began to drum louder. “This is our moment! It’s now or never!”
“Now,” Laruna murmured, guiding Jynn’s wrist. Together, they brought their hands swiveling down and toward the door, falling like an executioner’s axe. The pillar of sorcery followed the arc of their arms, a blade of blazing shadow that carved through stone and wood, through the walls and the iron vault door, and into the ancient demon beyond.
Mannon’s multitudinous mouths howled as searing flames and hooks of shadow tore through the center of his dark mass. Faces emerged from his charring membrane only to be burned away or ripped apart by barbed hooks of darkness that flickered amidst the flame.
The more magic Jynn wove, the more Laruna sent burning through his arm. The crystal in the Wyrmwood Staff whined in protest, like lake ice about to crack. Still the magic poured on, boring a hole clear through Mannon’s center and carving off one of his eight main legs. Green ichor and smoking, oily ooze dribbled onto the floor of the Great Vault of Andarun.
It was several long, burning, precious moments before the demonic faces’ screaming ceased and the reserves of Laruna’s magic finally exhausted themselves. Jynn tied off the weave as the pyromancer pulled her lips away. “That was…” The omnimancer trailed off, still holding her, still looking deep into her eyes.
“I know,” Laruna said. “I—”
But she didn’t finish. The mage went suddenly rigid as a tentacle of black thorns lashed across the pair. Jynn staggered back, his staff falling as Laruna was flung back against the wall. He tried to scream her name, but another of Mannon’s tendrils grabbed him about the head and swung the mage like a fleshy hammer against the opposite wall.
Chapter 33
The sheet of parchment slammed against the wall of the shrine of Tandos near Mauggin’s Row on the Fourth Tier. A priestess of Musana beat a nail into the edict, pinning it to the mantle of the wide door. It was a simple shrine; an ornate building no larger than a small shed featuring all the typical trappings of a place of worship of the warrior god: an altar with room for two to pray, a bronze spear wrapped in silken flame, icons of great heroes and champions, and an interfaith mob of furious clergy carrying torches and holy weapons at the door. The most senior priests and priestesses carried scrolls to nail to the doorway; writs of judgment or proclamations of holy wars against Tandos and his faithful.
Tandos the traitor god. Tandos the god of the Dark Ones. Tandos the deceiver. Tandos the servant of Mannon. In every temple across Arth, from the Imperial Seat to the frozen north of Ruskan to Enolia and the Dreadlands and all the far continents beyond the seas, high scribes and oracles still reeled from sudden revelations. The All Mother’s memories had returned, and with them some spell had broken over the pantheon. The texts of Musana and Alluna talked of webs of darkness falling from the gods’ eyes; Fulgen’s scriptures said the silent god was angered enough to use his voice; the Deep Gnomes claimed that even Dewen had no more patience for the warrior god. Gnolls and Goblins and Orcs bearing symbols of Grund, Gathra, and Gich were among the mob, proclaiming that their gods had turned from Mannon’s lies long ago and would see justice for those who hadn’t. Even gods who weren’t particularly interested in a war between good and evil—feral Fengelde, murderous Sitha, greedy Az’ilgar, fickle Uldine—had sent clergy to bring the fight against the Lying God.
