23


    They emerged halfway across the demolished City, on a mound of shifting rubble some fifty feet below Vernax''s hovering egg. The ground rocked with the tarrasque''s thundering footfalls; each step cratering pavement and stone like a meteor. Its bellows and shrieks caused weapons and metal debris to keen in response, filling the air with a high-pitched, minor-key thrum.


    Having given the sword away, Brother Arnulf now carried his spear. Invoked his last use of the Seer''s Eye to find the best, safest place from which Brother Humble might stand and be swallowed alive. Directly under the egg, it was, on a tilted slab of shattered mosaic wall.


    "There," he said and signed. "Best spot."


    The orc didn''t bother with speech, just nodded. His expression was difficult to read in the lurid glare of fire and war-magic, but he seemed rather cheerful.


    ''Once inside, safe-me,'' replied Vorbol, in hand-sign. ''You, outside, danger-see.''


    Wreathing smoke and dust obscured visibility, but there was no way to miss the mountain of leathery armor and fangs that was rapidly lurching their way, or the elvish force that fought and died to keep up with it.


    ''All well,'' Villem signed back, releasing Meliara''s hand. ''Will hide-us. Jump out, strike belly. Ankles.'' (Which they would be much better able to reach.) ''Oberyn''s blessing,'' he added, reaching up to clasp the orc''s armored shoulder.


    Brother Humble returned the grip, his big hand all but engulfing Villem''s right arm and shoulder.


    ''Oberyn''s blessing,'' replied his fellow paladin, striving for glory in Dawn rather than lusting for battle.


    They parted, then; Vorbol silhouetted in flame-glow and egg-shine, Villem and Meliara searching for someplace to lurk that wouldn''t collapse. That didn''t look too much like fate''s awful vision.


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    As for Lord Arvendahl, his plan was simple, last-ditch and desperate. Involved more than his own manna, though; requiring all of his mages'', as well. He meant to open an enormous fleet-transport gate in the titan''s path, once it was moving too fast to alter direction.


    Banishment seemed like his only real option, as straightforward attacks had accomplished nothing at all. Such violent manna- and life-drain would kill most of his spell-casters outright. Maybe himself, as well. Didn''t matter. Falcoridan had already transferred his badges of rank to Sheraaza, his heir. The girl was young, but capable. Eastermark would be left in good hands.


    At any rate, he was down to some twenty-odd fighters, of over two-hundred elves and their mounts. No further battle was possible. Not against that.


    "Take the remaining troops and withdraw from its reach," he said to Sheraaza. "I will strike from the north wall, with anyone left who has manna… Anyone left, but you," he amended, as the girl''s silver-grey eyes lit with sudden fire and hope. "You are my heir, and the future of Eastermark."


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    Placing the unicorn''s reins in her hand, he said,


    "You will live on to be greater than I. Now, go."


    ''Raaza nodded. Took a deep breath, then turned to mount Beryl, the unicorn. Her lord would accept no weakness, so his heir didn''t show any. Wheeling Beryl around in a sky-lashing rear, the girl gestured southward.


    "Retreat," she called out, and cast onto the clouds. "We gather at Far-Look!"


    Would have wished Falcoridan luck; spoken of love and respect, maybe… but there wasn''t time, and he was already moving. So, to the pitiless gods she whispered, instead, saying,


    "Please, let it work. Let him live."


    Should have been more specific.


    The tarrasque was picking up speed as it thundered nearer that bright, spinning dragon''s egg. Lord Arvendahl transported himself and the last fifteen war-mages onto the crumbling north wall, almost directly into its path.


    The footing was bad and the surface uneven, so there was a momentary scramble for stability when they arrived, along with a minor landslide of loose tiles and clattering stone chips. Once everyone had found a safe perch, Falcoridan looked them over. Nodded once, saying,


    "Your names will be sung, so long as the house of Arvendahl endures."


    "In the halls of our ancestors, Milord," responded their magister, expecting to meet him again, very soon.


    The egg shone just half a mile to the west, swirling with manna and the shadowy infant curled up inside. Someone else stood nearby. One of those bothersome paladins, he thought. Big fellow, whoever he was; armed and armored for battle against something too massive and awful to fight. Lord Arvendahl grunted disgustedly, then put the fool out of his thoughts.


    Began the spell, drawing manna from every available source. As midnight burnt closer, hungry corpses began to stir and arise; clawing free of the wreckage with what limbs they still had. He could not spare the attention or power to deal with them, for his spell would take everything he and his mages had left.


    Then the tarrasque was upon them, filling the sky and shaking the earth. The noise was deafening. Maddening. Another paladin raced over, this one wielding a spear and casting Light of Dawn. With him was a slim, hooded figure who poured most of her strength into Lord Falcoridan''s spell.


    The sun-bright portal that resulted would have transported a war-fleet or several armies… to nowhere, for he''d set it to carry away, not deliver. No power to spare for an actual destination. It opened up in the titan''s path, just as the monster''s great jaws gaped. Just as it drew in a howling typhoon''s worth of air.


    Fifteen mages powdered to dust, utterly drained, behind Falco. The high lord himself collapsed to the rumbling ground, half buried by loose, sliding rock.


    The monster''s horned head and half of its body charged through the gateway, leaving one twitching forelimb, its hindquarters and tail still without. Reflexively, Lord Arvendahl shut down the transport gate, slicing that writhing behemoth in half.


    Its tail and back legs convulsed violently, lashing timber and bricks to fine grit. Then it just vanished, leaving nothing behind but canyon-like claw marks and an oddly-shaped crater. Done. Dead and finished.


    Only… only, the egg was gone, too; having been sucked into the tarrasque''s huge mouth just as the gate opened up. Vernax''s egg… gift of Oberyn to the very first emperor… lost.


    Lord Falcoridan paled. Started to rise, but instead just crashed to his knees in the wreckage of Karellon. There was no excuse he could offer. No redress he could possibly make. Vernax the Golden was gone.


    His heir ported over alone, wild-eyed and pale in the raging firelight. Lord Arvendahl met her gaze briefly. Then he drew and offered up his sword, too full of guilt and anguish to speak.


    After a long, shaky moment… after searching all that she knew or ever had heard for another solution… Sheraaza took up the Blade of the Arvehdahls. Then, when her lord bowed his head, she lifted the sword. Braced herself, and brought it down in a whistling arc, cutting the head from his body.


    Burned his flailing and spouting remains with magical fire, then whirled to face hordes of shambling, broken undead; standing back to back with a fighter and oracle.