The Truth That Cannot Be Faked (6)

The circles filling the sky were a nightmare made visible.

Even the Black Dogs chanting to sustain their barrier fell silent and stared upward.

But Seamerd refused to give up. Those circles might not all be real. Perhaps they were an illusion, or perhaps their destructive power was far less than their size suggested. There was still a chance to survive.

He shook himself awake and thrust his wand into the air.

“All of you, call upon the demons! Strengthen the barrier with demonic energy if you must!”

His command gave the men a desperate purpose. They cursed and obeyed, awakening the power held in the marks their contracts with demons had left upon their bodies.

The price would be severe. Using that power wrought terrible changes in the flesh. But they had no other choice.

Dark red energy spilled from their skin. Faces and bodies flushed a deeper red; hard, bony horns broke through in places. As their demonic transformations took hold, the men poured that strength into their mana and chanted furiously.

A low hum shook the air.

Mana streamed from their wands, doubling and then tripling the strength of the barrier. Seamerd completed his own transformation and lent his power to the defense.

Then a black spear shot out of the first magic circle.

It tore through the air with a spiraling wind, aimed at the golems charging across the ground. It struck like a line drawn through the earth.

Rrrrrrumble!

The spear ripped up the ground and shattered every golem in its path. Their rock bodies burst apart as easily as children's toys.

Seamerd felt cold along his spine. He had sent them out as expendable targets, but he had not expected all of them to be destroyed by a single blow.

And that was merely the beginning.

Theorad extended his hand. Dozens of spears suspended in the air launched one after another.

Clang!

The first spear struck the barrier and rebounded. The force jolted the wrists of every man holding a wand. They had stopped it—but nobody cheered. The collision sent a shock wave rippling through the defense and rapidly weakened it.

Boom!

The next spear tore through the barrier and crashed into a tower on the castle's right side. Stone burst outward. The heavy structure tilted like a felled tree, and the men posted atop it screamed and leapt down in blind terror.

Boom! Crash!

The destruction swept across the rest of the walls. Buttresses split, ramparts collapsed, and heaps of masonry crushed the equipment stationed there. Black Dogs ran in every direction.

Some tried to hide beneath the parapets. It made no difference. Spears punched through stone and the bodies behind it, driving the victims into the wreckage.

If hell existed in this world, it could scarcely look different. Screams of people desperate to live echoed through the dust.

Seamerd let his wand fall.

Is this the end?

He had done everything he could. He had used the specialized weapons in the armory and dispatched the golems at what he believed was the proper moment. He had kept his wits even when the enormous circle appeared and ordered his men to resist.

In the end, he had even called upon demonic power to reinforce the barrier.

He could imagine no imperial general commanding this defense better. Yet every tactic had been useless. Against such overwhelming strength, his calculations were no more consequential than an ant's schemes before a human foot.

“Master! Master…!”

Babulo stared at him in disbelief. He did not want to understand why Seamerd had stopped fighting. Like everyone else, he wanted to live.

He wanted an order that would tell him how. That hope alone kept him from fleeing the collapsing battlements.

“Give us orders… Please, Master!”

Seamerd knew precisely what his lieutenant wanted. But he could not bring himself to offer a lie.

After a long silence, he gave a small, hopeless laugh and shook his head.

“There is only one order I can give. Pray to God.”

“Pray? What are you…?”

“Beg for an easy death.”

A direct strike would be a mercy compared with lying trapped under the masonry for days, slowly dying.

Babulo clenched his teeth and turned away. He raced toward the stairs leading off the wall, shoving wounded comrades aside and kicking bodies out of his path. If he could reach the basement passages, perhaps he could escape.

“Move! Get out of my way!”

He was almost at the stairs when another spear fell.

KRAAASH!

It tore through Babulo and struck the ground beyond him.

Seamerd watched without moving. Then he lifted his head, forcing down the last instinct to flee.

Spears descended upon the castle like javelins hurled by an ancient god in anger.

One was heading straight for him.

Seamerd closed his eyes and surrendered himself to what was coming.

I…

He had no time to finish the thought.

CRASH!

The ground shuddered and gave way beneath him. Before he could scream, his body disappeared into the collapse.

---

Breathe…

“Hah… hah…”

A stabbing pain filled Seamerd's lungs. Yet somehow he was alive. He forced his eyes open.

Fallen stones surrounded him. The bodies of his subordinates lay scattered amid the ruins.

“Ugh…!”

He tried to rise and felt a sudden agony in his lower back. Looking down, he found a jagged length of wood driven through it. He must have been struck by fragments of the gate when he fell from the ramparts.

With a bitter smile, Seamerd dragged himself backward and propped his body against a broken wall.

A silhouette appeared through the dust. At the sound of approaching footsteps, his whole body tensed.

Thud. Thud.

A cloak moved through the haze. As the stranger came into view, Seamerd let out a desolate laugh.

“So… you weren't Viscount Theorad after all.”

The person before him wore the red brooch and overcoat of House Deharem. But this was no human man.

Long silver hair gleamed about a woman's face. Her ears were unnaturally long, and her eyes were red as blood.

She approached with an eerie, almost divine composure.

“Did you kill Theorad?”

Her voice was low and sharp enough to seem to close around his throat.

Seamerd coughed blood and managed a hoarse answer.

“Yes—”

Before he finished, her fingers twitched. An unseen force seized him. Pain wracked his body and threatened to rob him of consciousness, but he endured it.

He spat blood from his lips.

“I had my orders… There were men involved… I couldn't refuse. But yes. I killed him.”

His breath came in shallow, failing gasps. The elf studied him and allowed him to continue. He seemed to have more to say.

Seamerd bowed his head; he lacked the strength to keep it raised.

“I… don't know who you are. But you seem to be on Viscount Theorad's side.”

“And?”

“There is information… that could help him gain a foothold in the imperial capital. I want to give it to you.”

“Why?”

Seamerd laughed weakly.

He wanted to aid the nobleman who had kept faith with his duty even in the face of death. He wanted revenge on the prince who had abandoned the Black Dogs. Several reasons crowded his mind.

But in the end he gave her the simplest truth.

“Because I want you to grant me a painless death.”

He understood what awaited him. The demonic power he had borrowed had granted him extraordinary regeneration. It would keep struggling to repair his broken body, even with the wood impaling his back. Sooner or later he would die, but the power would prolong his suffering for days.

No one would come to rescue him from this remote ruin. A quick death was preferable.

The elf showed no interest in his plea itself. What mattered was whether the information would help Theorad.

“Speak.”

The cold command cut through him.

Seamerd drew a painful breath.

“Go into the basement. In my room, there's a desk. Open the drawer… and you'll find a simple crystal ball.”

“A simple crystal ball?”

“Yes. A recording device… a magical tool that preserves images. I recorded the moment Viscount Theorad died, in case the prince ever tried to cast us aside. It can only be used once, but it isn't worthless. Please give it to Princess Benelia. Please…”

The elf nodded. Such a recording would certainly be of value.

It was time to pay the price he had asked. She silently raised a hand, and Seamerd knew a snap of those fingers would end his life.

Then another question occurred to him. He licked his dry, cracked lips.

“Before that… why did you drop the disguise?”

“The one who will spread word of what happened here to the other hideouts has already escaped.”

The answer satisfied him. Everyone left in the castle was either dead or dying. There was no reason for her to keep wearing another person's face. The dead could tell no one what they had seen.

“I see…”

Seamerd closed his eyes. Like a prisoner awaiting execution, he accepted the end with bitter resignation.

The elf looked down at him and snapped her fingers without hesitation.

Snap!

His consciousness went dark.