As soon as he placed the tip of the blade against the stone, a crawling dread swept over. He held it there for a moment, trying to tabulate the functions of the tool, but nothing but raw guesswork remained to him. He heard the footsteps of the children and their minders vanishing up the stairs.
“You ready?” he asked Innie.
“No. But don't let that stop you,” she said, wide amber eyes fixed on the door.
There was nothing for it - Efrain steadied his hand and pressed the black blade into the stone. It was a relatively simple application of magic, almost instinctual, to activate the tool. He projected down into the chisel end, where stiff filaments would pierce the wall and sink deep within. This defeated the function of the chisel, but he already suspected that some of the features were more ornamental.
The next part was slightly more complicated, angling the blade up and down until he’d pressed the furled tips to the smooth surface. They sank in as well, leaving him holding the blade spine nearly parallel to the wall. Slowly, taking painstaking care not to twist the metal, he drew it down.
The stone split apart and drew back, guided through the furls and out, revealing a thin line in the stone. There was a silent thrill that fought against the dread as the hairline crack grew larger and larger. Finally, he reached the floor, and drew the knife out of the stone with minimal resistance.
With one last look at his partner, he placed both hands on the door and began to push.
There was a grinding squeal as the heavy stones slid open and out. Past, there was a thick darkness that blotted out most of the detail, even with the magelight active. Efrain took two steps and raised it high, its luminosity increasing as it rose. Even so, it flickered as the smothering cold poured out of the chamber, casting wavering shadows on the surrounding stone walls.
A moment of grim satisfaction availed him - he had surmised correctly about the room being some sort of important tomb. Large alcoves with carved-relief tombs marched off into the dark, twinned pillars marking each and every one. A vaulted ceiling spanned the passage, faded mosaics depicting unknown scenes of times past.
In fact, it would’ve been a place that Efrain could easily see himself working in. Painstakingly brushing off the faded paint and chipped stone, recreating the designs in book after book. Days and nights of note taking, trying to piece together the story of what this place was and why it was here. Unfortunately, the beauty of that vision was marred by the hostile darkness that wrapped around the vault.
He and Innie cautiously crept forward, the light above his head pushing back the heavy shadows. Her fur stood on end, amber eyes inspecting every little pittance, every corner past where something might hide. Efrain was much the same way, expecting something to detach itself from the stone and give chase.
Yet, there was nothing, no movement, no sudden gleam of hostile eyes. Just the stone, and the ever deepening cold.
Finally, they reached the depths of the tomb, a handful of steps that lead down into a wider room. In the muddy light he cast, he saw something large and round, sitting slumped over what looked to be an altar of some kind. There was no aggression that he could feel, no stirring of the thing in response to their presence, just the cold that poured off it.
As he entered through the arched steps, he realised that the thing was making sounds. A wet, gurgling noise, that was rather uncomfortably reminiscent of the creatures from the fog. The sound of a throat that had been crushed and twisted by the weight of its deformities. Still, it lacked the rage that came with the things that had crashed on the church roof or swarmed its outer wall.
Efrain took another few steps and stood before the round mass, slightly taller than he was, peering closely as its features came into relief. When he realised what it was, he felt a stomach that no longer existed turn over on itself. There were pale bumps and ridges where there might’ve been anatomical landmarks at one point. Various malformed limbs jutted out and merged back into the structure, some recognizable, some alien. The flesh shuddered and writhed as he neared it, groans and gurgles exiting various gashes and holes in its surface.
What was far, far worse, however, was what he discovered when he looked within.
Innie must’ve discovered it at the same time, issuing a violent wail of disgust and grief. Efrain staggered away, trying to steady himself on one of the pillars as his vision swam. The self-hatred, the sorrow, the unbelievable nauseating pain that issued from the thing was enough to make him wish he never came here. Its magic was even worse - an indescribable warped abomination that should’ve never been borne into existence.
It took a herculean effort to remain standing, fighting the physically impossible urge to sink to his knees and vomit. Innie was slamming herself into a pillar in a mad horror, and his gaze slid to the knife in his hand. The terrible revelation was like an explosion in his mind.
He could almost see the priest raising the knife, almost seeing the gears of thought turning in his head. If it could join and separate stone, what else could it pull asunder? A terrible demon, removed from a child, think of the praise, think of the tithes, think of the reaffirmation of the faith!
Innie lay on the ground, curled and shivering, her wails fallen into a grim silence, punctuated only by quiet sobs. Efrain stood there, feeling the knife slip to clatter on the ground. The thing twitched and issued another moan as it undulated from its base to top.
Somewhere in the corners of his mind he wondered if somewhere in the mass the priest was still alive. It would be a ghastly fate, and a deserved one, to be trapped in this fleshy prison. But what had happened to the wisp matriarch’s power? Why was there a ghost appearing to Aya and granting her access to the flames?
Shrinking back into himself, he huddled by the wall - more than anything, he wanted to be away from here. He wanted to be in his isolated little castle in a far-away mountain. He wanted a cup of tea, and a good book, and to forget such horrible things could exist in this world.
But alas, he was here, he had made the choice to come here, and it made the choice to open the door.
It’s not fair, he thought, numbly, why must it be me?
Innie had stopped sobbing, merely lying there in a terrible stillness. Not dead, nor was she injured beyond superficiality, rather trapped in the depths of paralytic grief. But it would soon fade, Efrain knew for it was happening to him. All that stupefaction, swept away by rage.
There were footsteps, far behind him, a set of them, hurrying down the tomb corridor. Distant faces, barely distinguishable from the darkness, emerged past the arches, still some distance away. Their eyes were straining, faces scrunched up as they tried to pierce the gloom, not yet realising the dire horror that awaited them.
Maybe it was in a spirit of mercy that Efrain rose, and turned toward the cat. More likely, it was the rage that was boiling just under the surface, only held by the thinnest membrane of numbness. The stones under Innie were beginning to be cast in a red light as her fur began to glow, despite the damping of her magic.
“What is that?” called one of the paladins from down the hall.
Efrain said nothing as he faced the horrible fusion of the priest and girl, twitching and moaning. He didn’t need to.
Flames rose into the air, exhaustion no longer a barrier as Innie rose to her height. The cat was melting, dribbling down on the floor as the true form of the wisp mother bled through in a pillar of yellow-red light. The temperature of the room shot up from icy to lukewarm in an instant as flames began to crawl across the stone and reached for the abomination.
The paladins had reached the threshold, thrusting their charges behind them as they gazed upon the scene. They were reaching for their swords, even as the flames grew in heat and intensity. The mass did not attempt to lash rather bellowed as the fire licked, shuddering so violently Efrain thought it might come apart. It coiled and twitched as the flames rose up its side, the smell of burning flesh filling the room.
Efrain didn’t even look at it, merely fixing his stare on the church insignia, emblazoned on the plate of the paladins. The screams rose to a fever pitch, met by a furious roaring and crackling of the ever-growing blaze. There was one last desperate burst of coldness that rolled over him, dimming the firelight for a moment, and turning the paladin’s pale.
Then, as if a floodgate was opened, his magic was no longer suppressed, and the fires roared to new heights. The thing had been submerged in a pillar of red and yellow flames, leaping up almost to the tall ceiling of the room. In the back of Efrain’s mind, he realised it wasn’t wise that the fire would eat the air up so deep in the earth. He did nothing.
He simply stood there, staring at the paladins without a word.
“Efrain,” croaked Innie.
He turned to see the charred remains slumping to the floor. In its centre, no longer bound, floated a thin ring of yellow blue flame. The fragment shed little bright rivulets like downy feathers, soft sparks fading into Innie’s blaze.
The rage drove Efrain forward, knowing what was about to happen and what he was about to do. No rational impulse was going to stop him now. Innie was in lockstep with him as he knelt down before the remains, the flames parting as he reached in. The paladins were screaming something as he closed his hand around the ring, and felt his world come to life.
The fire was no longer just fire, it was light itself, so blindingly bright and hot that stones around them began to glow. Efrain felt something immense move into him, a wall of molten power moving enough momentum to sweep him away. The traces of the wisp matriarch entered the man and the cat, and in that moment they were its avatar.
He rose, and the blue-yellow blaze rose with him, fanning over the whole room. At some point, the paladins had grabbed their charges and ran for dear life. Efrain was almost beyond thought as he began to make for the stairs. Every step was a burden, his body rattling uncontrollably with each footfall.
Step-by-step, the pair made their way through the corridor, leaving a sea of flame in their wake. The stone glowed with the rage of their passing, murals utterly destroyed, features beginning to run like wax on the carven reliefs. The only thing untouched by the flames was the black doors, a constant wall in the flames.
As he made his way into the crypts, leaving glass footprints in the sand, he became dimly aware that his robes were beginning to smoke. The magic coursing through him was not meant for him to wield - memory, knowledge, consciousness, all seemed to fall away at its burning touch.
He was being consumed, he and Innie both as they channelled the might of the matriarch, fraction as it was. The burst of magic on the roof was nothing compared to what they now held within themselves. This was a primal power, far grander than anything they’d seen in their long lives.
The passage was beginning to groan and warp, the stone beginning to run as he found his way to the spiral stair. Step-by-step, gripping the walls for purchase, he managed to drag himself up. Every rise was harder than the one that came before it, and soon he was climbing mountains with each step. The stones trembled at his touch, his hands leaving glowing impressions. Soon they too fell into the wall of conflagration that rose behind him.
Still, onward and upward he climbed, higher and higher, past the entrance to the church and to the roof. Night had finally fallen, the sounds of battle beginning as the monsters moved for the final assault. The posted guards screamed warnings of ‘fire!’ ‘fire!’ and shouted prayers as Efrain crawled his way onto the roof. They must’ve thought this some terrible new monster, something immune to their burning brands.
“Leave. Now,” Efrain said, the words slurring as he forced them into the air.
The men were quick to take his advice, but stopped at the tower stairs, staring in horror at the dripping stone. Some looked to the edge, preparing to leap to avoid the frame.
In the midst of the tumult, some bare fraction of Efrain remained to recognize the arbitrary cruelty of their position. He reached out, not to the men but beyond them, and plucked the heat from the stones. With a gust of warm air, they cooled rapidly from molten red to survivable grey. Somewhere, the scholar in Efrain screamed at the indignity of this impossible action.
But this was a magic of fundamentals. It did not stoop to petty things like ‘rules’.
The men, seeing their chance, hurled themselves down the stairs. With their absence, there was nothing left to restrain the power. The flames poured out like water, spilling over the walls of the church, roaring into the sky. Efrain didn’t think about the memory, intent, or emotion, nor any mechanical aspect of the magic - where he wanted, the world burned.
What little left of his mind felt memories of times and places foreign to him roar through his mind. The chaos of his mind lent him very little clarity, sights were smells, sounds were feelings, a cacophony of sensations raced through him faster and faster. In that blurring conundrum, he could see a single, core memory, one that drove all others.
A sunlit place, far away near a golden sea, a funeral, a birth, both at the same time, a tall figure, singing of purpose.
With a final effort, he called the magic to him, hoping to gain some vestige of control. The flames coiled and twisted and condensed, collapsing into an ever-tighter sphere as nature did its work. Heat itself lifted off the melting slates of the roof, absorbed into the mass at his fingertips, leaving a bright ball no bigger than his fist.
The world hung in that moment, the sounds of battle far away, screams of human and monster distant memories. In that moment of brief lucidity, Efrain held a star in his hand.
Then with a tremendous expansion of sound and rage and fire, a blast of hot wind ripped the fog away from the hill and scattered it across the highlands. Men and monsters were sent sprawling, the creatures flying on the icy mist spiralling and falling to earth.
Now the true force of the enemy was revealed - hundreds, perhaps as many as a thousand on the hill beyond. It was only a matter of time before they would rise over the wall, dismantle the barricades, and slaughter the defenders. Men, women, even children who’d worked so hard to defend their homes and lives. All rended to pieces because a little girl had gone for a little hike.
Chains were wrapping around Efrain, white hot and heavy, pulling him to the roof, disintegrating the spells that held him together. He was smoking in truth now and might catch flame at any moment. At his back, felt rather than seen, was an immense twisting whirlwind. It reached up and out into the night, its sudden light blotting out the stars. At its very centre, a consciousness took form within the power, something that wished for nothing more than to reduce all to ash. Efrain turned to the creatures that squirmed and charged below, heedless of the peril above.
He barely even perceived what happened next.
There was one final roar, louder and more violent than anything he’d ever heard of, conceived of, and would likely ever hear again. Branches extended down from the fire, great scouring fingers that swept across the earth, tearing down fruit trees, barely missing the barricades, and spilling down the hill.
The creatures came to meet it, not even turning aside as the heat and light submerged them. Perhaps they couldn’t even understand death anymore, so far gone was their nature. In a heartbeat, they faltered in the tide of flame, falling to the ground as they burned to ash. Dozens of them went in an instant as the power of Wisp Matriarch did its terrible work.
The fingers swept down past the outer wall, two tendrils splitting and crashing back together in a fountain of fire. The great bulk of the monsters were burnt into mere shadows on the cobbles. Efrain’s vision began to darken as his last vestiges of consciousness began to fail. He felt a draining sensation, the last of the magic of the matriarch flowing out into the night.
The heat that ate away at his very being was gone now, leaving behind a scorched emptiness. He fell to the ground, his limbs barely weak enough to prop himself up against the church roof. Innie, once more a cat, dragged herself over to him, curling on his lap as her eyes closed.
Too late, he remembered the curse upon the mask. That must’ve been the draining sensation, now that he’d let so much magic flow through it, it was sucking him dry. He tried vainly for some way to stem the flow, but he was so tired, so weak. Looking down, he noted that the church, although singed, was still more-or-less intact. There was a strange mix of regret and relief at the observation.
His voice, now a drab, thin thing, echoed out, remembering the conversation he’d had with Innie about her future plans of arson.
“Sorry, old friend,” he said, “I think I missed.”
Then Efrain Belacore, Baron of the Frozen Vale, and self-titled ‘Lord of Death’, was no more.
As soon as he placed the tip of the blade against the stone, a crawling dread swept over. He held it there for a moment, trying to tabulate the functions of the tool, but nothing but raw guesswork remained to him. He heard the footsteps of the children and their minders vanishing up the stairs.
“You ready?” he asked Innie.
“No. But don't let that stop you,” she said, wide amber eyes fixed on the door.
There was nothing for it - Efrain steadied his hand and pressed the black blade into the stone. It was a relatively simple application of magic, almost instinctual, to activate the tool. He projected down into the chisel end, where stiff filaments would pierce the wall and sink deep within. This defeated the function of the chisel, but he already suspected that some of the features were more ornamental.
The next part was slightly more complicated, angling the blade up and down until he’d pressed the furled tips to the smooth surface. They sank in as well, leaving him holding the blade spine nearly parallel to the wall. Slowly, taking painstaking care not to twist the metal, he drew it down.
The stone split apart and drew back, guided through the furls and out, revealing a thin line in the stone. There was a silent thrill that fought against the dread as the hairline crack grew larger and larger. Finally, he reached the floor, and drew the knife out of the stone with minimal resistance.
With one last look at his partner, he placed both hands on the door and began to push.
There was a grinding squeal as the heavy stones slid open and out. Past, there was a thick darkness that blotted out most of the detail, even with the magelight active. Efrain took two steps and raised it high, its luminosity increasing as it rose. Even so, it flickered as the smothering cold poured out of the chamber, casting wavering shadows on the surrounding stone walls.
A moment of grim satisfaction availed him - he had surmised correctly about the room being some sort of important tomb. Large alcoves with carved-relief tombs marched off into the dark, twinned pillars marking each and every one. A vaulted ceiling spanned the passage, faded mosaics depicting unknown scenes of times past.
In fact, it would’ve been a place that Efrain could easily see himself working in. Painstakingly brushing off the faded paint and chipped stone, recreating the designs in book after book. Days and nights of note taking, trying to piece together the story of what this place was and why it was here. Unfortunately, the beauty of that vision was marred by the hostile darkness that wrapped around the vault.
He and Innie cautiously crept forward, the light above his head pushing back the heavy shadows. Her fur stood on end, amber eyes inspecting every little pittance, every corner past where something might hide. Efrain was much the same way, expecting something to detach itself from the stone and give chase.
Yet, there was nothing, no movement, no sudden gleam of hostile eyes. Just the stone, and the ever deepening cold.
Finally, they reached the depths of the tomb, a handful of steps that lead down into a wider room. In the muddy light he cast, he saw something large and round, sitting slumped over what looked to be an altar of some kind. There was no aggression that he could feel, no stirring of the thing in response to their presence, just the cold that poured off it.
As he entered through the arched steps, he realised that the thing was making sounds. A wet, gurgling noise, that was rather uncomfortably reminiscent of the creatures from the fog. The sound of a throat that had been crushed and twisted by the weight of its deformities. Still, it lacked the rage that came with the things that had crashed on the church roof or swarmed its outer wall.
Efrain took another few steps and stood before the round mass, slightly taller than he was, peering closely as its features came into relief. When he realised what it was, he felt a stomach that no longer existed turn over on itself. There were pale bumps and ridges where there might’ve been anatomical landmarks at one point. Various malformed limbs jutted out and merged back into the structure, some recognizable, some alien. The flesh shuddered and writhed as he neared it, groans and gurgles exiting various gashes and holes in its surface.
What was far, far worse, however, was what he discovered when he looked within.
Innie must’ve discovered it at the same time, issuing a violent wail of disgust and grief. Efrain staggered away, trying to steady himself on one of the pillars as his vision swam. The self-hatred, the sorrow, the unbelievable nauseating pain that issued from the thing was enough to make him wish he never came here. Its magic was even worse - an indescribable warped abomination that should’ve never been borne into existence.
It took a herculean effort to remain standing, fighting the physically impossible urge to sink to his knees and vomit. Innie was slamming herself into a pillar in a mad horror, and his gaze slid to the knife in his hand. The terrible revelation was like an explosion in his mind.
He could almost see the priest raising the knife, almost seeing the gears of thought turning in his head. If it could join and separate stone, what else could it pull asunder? A terrible demon, removed from a child, think of the praise, think of the tithes, think of the reaffirmation of the faith!
Innie lay on the ground, curled and shivering, her wails fallen into a grim silence, punctuated only by quiet sobs. Efrain stood there, feeling the knife slip to clatter on the ground. The thing twitched and issued another moan as it undulated from its base to top.
Somewhere in the corners of his mind he wondered if somewhere in the mass the priest was still alive. It would be a ghastly fate, and a deserved one, to be trapped in this fleshy prison. But what had happened to the wisp matriarch’s power? Why was there a ghost appearing to Aya and granting her access to the flames?
Shrinking back into himself, he huddled by the wall - more than anything, he wanted to be away from here. He wanted to be in his isolated little castle in a far-away mountain. He wanted a cup of tea, and a good book, and to forget such horrible things could exist in this world.
But alas, he was here, he had made the choice to come here, and it made the choice to open the door.
It’s not fair, he thought, numbly, why must it be me?
Innie had stopped sobbing, merely lying there in a terrible stillness. Not dead, nor was she injured beyond superficiality, rather trapped in the depths of paralytic grief. But it would soon fade, Efrain knew for it was happening to him. All that stupefaction, swept away by rage.
There were footsteps, far behind him, a set of them, hurrying down the tomb corridor. Distant faces, barely distinguishable from the darkness, emerged past the arches, still some distance away. Their eyes were straining, faces scrunched up as they tried to pierce the gloom, not yet realising the dire horror that awaited them.
Maybe it was in a spirit of mercy that Efrain rose, and turned toward the cat. More likely, it was the rage that was boiling just under the surface, only held by the thinnest membrane of numbness. The stones under Innie were beginning to be cast in a red light as her fur began to glow, despite the damping of her magic.
“What is that?” called one of the paladins from down the hall.
Efrain said nothing as he faced the horrible fusion of the priest and girl, twitching and moaning. He didn’t need to.
Flames rose into the air, exhaustion no longer a barrier as Innie rose to her height. The cat was melting, dribbling down on the floor as the true form of the wisp mother bled through in a pillar of yellow-red light. The temperature of the room shot up from icy to lukewarm in an instant as flames began to crawl across the stone and reached for the abomination.
The paladins had reached the threshold, thrusting their charges behind them as they gazed upon the scene. They were reaching for their swords, even as the flames grew in heat and intensity. The mass did not attempt to lash rather bellowed as the fire licked, shuddering so violently Efrain thought it might come apart. It coiled and twitched as the flames rose up its side, the smell of burning flesh filling the room.
Efrain didn’t even look at it, merely fixing his stare on the church insignia, emblazoned on the plate of the paladins. The screams rose to a fever pitch, met by a furious roaring and crackling of the ever-growing blaze. There was one last desperate burst of coldness that rolled over him, dimming the firelight for a moment, and turning the paladin’s pale.
Then, as if a floodgate was opened, his magic was no longer suppressed, and the fires roared to new heights. The thing had been submerged in a pillar of red and yellow flames, leaping up almost to the tall ceiling of the room. In the back of Efrain’s mind, he realised it wasn’t wise that the fire would eat the air up so deep in the earth. He did nothing.
He simply stood there, staring at the paladins without a word.
“Efrain,” croaked Innie.
He turned to see the charred remains slumping to the floor. In its centre, no longer bound, floated a thin ring of yellow blue flame. The fragment shed little bright rivulets like downy feathers, soft sparks fading into Innie’s blaze.
The rage drove Efrain forward, knowing what was about to happen and what he was about to do. No rational impulse was going to stop him now. Innie was in lockstep with him as he knelt down before the remains, the flames parting as he reached in. The paladins were screaming something as he closed his hand around the ring, and felt his world come to life.
The fire was no longer just fire, it was light itself, so blindingly bright and hot that stones around them began to glow. Efrain felt something immense move into him, a wall of molten power moving enough momentum to sweep him away. The traces of the wisp matriarch entered the man and the cat, and in that moment they were its avatar.
He rose, and the blue-yellow blaze rose with him, fanning over the whole room. At some point, the paladins had grabbed their charges and ran for dear life. Efrain was almost beyond thought as he began to make for the stairs. Every step was a burden, his body rattling uncontrollably with each footfall.
Step-by-step, the pair made their way through the corridor, leaving a sea of flame in their wake. The stone glowed with the rage of their passing, murals utterly destroyed, features beginning to run like wax on the carven reliefs. The only thing untouched by the flames was the black doors, a constant wall in the flames.
As he made his way into the crypts, leaving glass footprints in the sand, he became dimly aware that his robes were beginning to smoke. The magic coursing through him was not meant for him to wield - memory, knowledge, consciousness, all seemed to fall away at its burning touch.
He was being consumed, he and Innie both as they channelled the might of the matriarch, fraction as it was. The burst of magic on the roof was nothing compared to what they now held within themselves. This was a primal power, far grander than anything they’d seen in their long lives.
The passage was beginning to groan and warp, the stone beginning to run as he found his way to the spiral stair. Step-by-step, gripping the walls for purchase, he managed to drag himself up. Every rise was harder than the one that came before it, and soon he was climbing mountains with each step. The stones trembled at his touch, his hands leaving glowing impressions. Soon they too fell into the wall of conflagration that rose behind him.
Still, onward and upward he climbed, higher and higher, past the entrance to the church and to the roof. Night had finally fallen, the sounds of battle beginning as the monsters moved for the final assault. The posted guards screamed warnings of ‘fire!’ ‘fire!’ and shouted prayers as Efrain crawled his way onto the roof. They must’ve thought this some terrible new monster, something immune to their burning brands.
“Leave. Now,” Efrain said, the words slurring as he forced them into the air.
The men were quick to take his advice, but stopped at the tower stairs, staring in horror at the dripping stone. Some looked to the edge, preparing to leap to avoid the frame.
In the midst of the tumult, some bare fraction of Efrain remained to recognize the arbitrary cruelty of their position. He reached out, not to the men but beyond them, and plucked the heat from the stones. With a gust of warm air, they cooled rapidly from molten red to survivable grey. Somewhere, the scholar in Efrain screamed at the indignity of this impossible action.
But this was a magic of fundamentals. It did not stoop to petty things like ‘rules’.
The men, seeing their chance, hurled themselves down the stairs. With their absence, there was nothing left to restrain the power. The flames poured out like water, spilling over the walls of the church, roaring into the sky. Efrain didn’t think about the memory, intent, or emotion, nor any mechanical aspect of the magic - where he wanted, the world burned.
What little left of his mind felt memories of times and places foreign to him roar through his mind. The chaos of his mind lent him very little clarity, sights were smells, sounds were feelings, a cacophony of sensations raced through him faster and faster. In that blurring conundrum, he could see a single, core memory, one that drove all others.
A sunlit place, far away near a golden sea, a funeral, a birth, both at the same time, a tall figure, singing of purpose.
With a final effort, he called the magic to him, hoping to gain some vestige of control. The flames coiled and twisted and condensed, collapsing into an ever-tighter sphere as nature did its work. Heat itself lifted off the melting slates of the roof, absorbed into the mass at his fingertips, leaving a bright ball no bigger than his fist.
The world hung in that moment, the sounds of battle far away, screams of human and monster distant memories. In that moment of brief lucidity, Efrain held a star in his hand.
Then with a tremendous expansion of sound and rage and fire, a blast of hot wind ripped the fog away from the hill and scattered it across the highlands. Men and monsters were sent sprawling, the creatures flying on the icy mist spiralling and falling to earth.
Now the true force of the enemy was revealed - hundreds, perhaps as many as a thousand on the hill beyond. It was only a matter of time before they would rise over the wall, dismantle the barricades, and slaughter the defenders. Men, women, even children who’d worked so hard to defend their homes and lives. All rended to pieces because a little girl had gone for a little hike.
Chains were wrapping around Efrain, white hot and heavy, pulling him to the roof, disintegrating the spells that held him together. He was smoking in truth now and might catch flame at any moment. At his back, felt rather than seen, was an immense twisting whirlwind. It reached up and out into the night, its sudden light blotting out the stars. At its very centre, a consciousness took form within the power, something that wished for nothing more than to reduce all to ash. Efrain turned to the creatures that squirmed and charged below, heedless of the peril above.
He barely even perceived what happened next.
There was one final roar, louder and more violent than anything he’d ever heard of, conceived of, and would likely ever hear again. Branches extended down from the fire, great scouring fingers that swept across the earth, tearing down fruit trees, barely missing the barricades, and spilling down the hill.
The creatures came to meet it, not even turning aside as the heat and light submerged them. Perhaps they couldn’t even understand death anymore, so far gone was their nature. In a heartbeat, they faltered in the tide of flame, falling to the ground as they burned to ash. Dozens of them went in an instant as the power of Wisp Matriarch did its terrible work.
The fingers swept down past the outer wall, two tendrils splitting and crashing back together in a fountain of fire. The great bulk of the monsters were burnt into mere shadows on the cobbles. Efrain’s vision began to darken as his last vestiges of consciousness began to fail. He felt a draining sensation, the last of the magic of the matriarch flowing out into the night.
The heat that ate away at his very being was gone now, leaving behind a scorched emptiness. He fell to the ground, his limbs barely weak enough to prop himself up against the church roof. Innie, once more a cat, dragged herself over to him, curling on his lap as her eyes closed.
Too late, he remembered the curse upon the mask. That must’ve been the draining sensation, now that he’d let so much magic flow through it, it was sucking him dry. He tried vainly for some way to stem the flow, but he was so tired, so weak. Looking down, he noted that the church, although singed, was still more-or-less intact. There was a strange mix of regret and relief at the observation.
His voice, now a drab, thin thing, echoed out, remembering the conversation he’d had with Innie about her future plans of arson.
“Sorry, old friend,” he said, “I think I missed.”
Then Efrain Belacore, Baron of the Frozen Vale, and self-titled ‘Lord of Death’, was no more.
