The Last Dance

  “I do not come to pacify. I come to conquer. The time for half-measures is ended. If my enemies will not bow to a man, then I will become my blade. If they will not bow to a blade, they will die upon it.”

  — Jerrid Bornsworth, Imperial Archives (quoted in Maelor the Chronicler, Maelor’s Pride: The Life of Jerrid Bornsworth, Emperor Extraordinaire)

  His nearly useless ceremonial sword was out of its scabbard in seconds as Biaun frantically scanned the ballroom for signs of backup. The first of the assassins appeared clinging to the ceiling above a dining table—an angular, reptilian silhouette with razor talons.

  With instinct honed by years of battle, Biaun thrust Aehyl behind him and dropped into a defensive stance. Across the ballroom, six more of the creatures materialized near the stairway, slicing their way through panicked guests with wicked glee as they beelined for the emperor.

  They came in from the ceiling, Biaun realized grimly. They bypassed security entirely.

  At the center of the chaos, Emperor Melchan turned just in time to see his youngest son, Waewulf, draw his tiny short sword and cry out a challenge to the beast crawling above him. All sense of royal composure evaporated from the emperor’s face. He surged forward—no longer a ruler, but a father—racing toward his son with total disregard for his own safety.

  The assassin, sensing an easy kill, dropped from the ceiling. Talons extended, it dove at the emperor—razor claws slashing through the air just inches from Melchan’s throat.

  But before it could strike, a massive glowing hand of golden energy erupted upward. With brutal precision, the magical force snatched the creature mid-plunge and slammed it back against the ceiling, pinning it in place.

  A split-second later, a tortured, inhuman shriek tore through the ballroom.

  Biaun watched in horror as the trapped assassin was devoured by raw, acidic magic—its flesh dissolving in waves beneath the crushing, burning power of the conjured hand. Within seconds, both spell and victim dissolved into a gluey mass of reddish-yellow arcane gore, dripping from the ceiling like rain.

  Biaun assessed the chaos in a blink.

  With the Obsidian Order now engaged and both Eros and Kia-Aret standing watch near the emperor, Melchan was safe—for the moment.

  The knight turned from the dais and sprinted into the madness, weaving through lines of screaming nobles, startled merchants, and cowering entertainers. His eyes locked on the nearest assassin barreling his way.

  He met the beast only seconds later—its talons already wet with fresh blood. Mistaking him for just another pompous aristocrat, the reptilian killer made a lazy sweep with its arm, aiming to shove past.

  Its arrogance cost it dearly.

  Biaun’s blade flashed once, and the limb fell away at the elbow. The beast hadn’t even finished recoiling before the knight stepped through and struck twice more. Its head and body crashed to the ground separately, the severed arm never reaching the floor before being joined by both.

  The remaining assassins hesitated—just long enough to register the threat. Then, howling and blood-maddened, they turned and charged.

  But the knight no longer stood alone.

  Captain Ogrebane emerged beside him, massive and grinning like a man eager for violence. Ove followed close behind, her short blade already stained. Portean, quick as lightning, slipped in silently at Biaun’s flank. Then came Dreng—and, staggering in with a bottle still clutched in one hand—Calix Carcer, grinning like a lunatic.

  The melee that followed was brutal.

  Steel clashed. Screams rang out. Blood sprayed across marble columns and silk finery. But within minutes, the assassins lay hacked to pieces at the warriors’ feet—twisted, inhuman remains scattered like refuse.

  Though a few of the defenders sported shallow cuts and bruises, none had fallen.

  The brief respite didn’t last.

  More of the unsightly killers continued to sow chaos throughout the ballroom. Biaun’s makeshift band fought to reach them—only to witness a larger cluster of assassins clashing violently with the emperor’s personal guard near the royal tables.

  Though outnumbered, the beasts carved a bloody path. Over a dozen brave guardsmen now lay lifeless on the obsidian floor beside their comrades, who fought on desperately amid overturned chairs and shattered goblets.

  The six rushed to support the Order but before going twenty feet a fist-sized glowing cube skipped across the glossed black floor, landing just in front of them.

  Skidding to a tumbling halt, the arcane cube hovered weightlessly in midair, pulsing red as if alive. Dual veins of chaotic energy split open the space around it, crackling like twin Tesla coils. The noise was deafening—raw magic tearing at the fabric of the ballroom.

  As the energy vortex expanded, so too did the cube, rapidly reshaping itself into a towering archway—its silhouette eerily echoing the grand doors of the ballroom itself.

  Then, from within the scarlet glow, something massive moved.

  It emerged in a single, powerful bound—a creature of staggering size and nightmare design.

  Standing upright on two thick, pillar-like legs, its chest was a slab of sinewy muscle sheathed in a hide of glistening onyx and cobalt. Great, ape-like arms swung low at its sides, each ending in three-fingered hands the size of shields. Each digit ended in a curved talon, thick as a dagger and gleaming with a metallic sheen.

  Two beady, bloodshot eyes burned with hate as they scanned the room.

  The thing’s broad, demonic head sat squat upon its shoulders—no neck, no elegance—just raw, monstrous force. It snapped its massive jaws aggressively, the sound like stone grinding on bone. Slit nostrils flared with each ragged breath. It stood nearly twelve feet tall, hairless, glistening, and reeking of the arcane corruption that had summoned it.

  Scattering in all directions, the half-dozen combatants exchanged helpless glances as they eyed their nearly useless ceremonial blades. It had been one thing to dispatch the smaller, lightly armored assassins—but this was something else entirely. Against the behemoth now stalking toward them, their brittle weapons would be little more than kindling.

  They fanned out, circling the creature cautiously, keeping well beyond the reach of its rending claws. No one moved to strike. Not yet. Not until someone had a plan.

  Aehyl watched in horror from the ballroom's edge as the demon lunged, shifting its attention from one brave warrior to the next. She knew each of them had faced death before, but against this... if help didn’t arrive soon, they would all be corpses in finery.

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  Nearby, Eros raised his hands and began chanting in a deep, ominous tone. Magic flared around him and then surged forward—dozens of white-hot energy missiles tearing through the air and slamming into the beast’s plated back. Each impact erupted with a sharp crack, gouging deep furrows into the hide.

  But the demon barely flinched.

  With a low, guttural clicking that could only be described as laughter, the creature flexed its massive shoulders—and then lunged forward.

  Too fast.

  Its talons seized Dreng Fairfax mid-dodge.

  A scream tore through the air.

  Then, with a horrifying twist, the beast ripped the man in half.

  Entrails hit the floor in wet, meaty slaps. Gore sprayed across the polished obsidian. Before anyone could process what had just happened, the demon bellowed in triumph and turned, already seeking its next victim.

  Meanwhile, Biaun dove desperately to the side, narrowly avoiding the crushing sweep of one of the beast’s massive, clawed hands.

  On reflex, he brought his sword around in a full arc, aiming to sever the great limb—but the blade shattered on impact. Metal fragments clattered across the obsidian floor, glinting uselessly as they scattered.

  “Damn it,” Biaun snarled, hurling himself into another roll as the beast rounded on him. Its shadow loomed above, and the demon pivoted, anticipating his movement.

  It lunged again—right arm anchoring its weight, left arm raised high, talons poised to strike the killing blow.

  Then—thrum!

  A bolt whistled through the air, slamming into the thinner hide between the beast’s exposed forearm and bicep. The creature shrieked and jerked back, its arm spasming as it dropped, buying Biaun just enough time to scramble clear.

  “Move!” came Portean’s voice from behind.

  The elven ranger tossed a replacement sword toward Biaun—scavenged, likely, from the body of a fallen Obsidian Order knight. Even as the blade spun through the air, Portean was already working another bolt into a guard’s stolen crossbow.

  He leveled the weapon and fired.

  The bolt struck the demon dead-center—but too high. It embedded with a dull thunk just above its brow, barely piercing the thick hide.

  The creature shook its head in irritation and locked its red eyes on the ranger.

  It howled—a grinding, grating sound like stone plates being scraped violently together.

  Then it charged.

  Portean flinched but held his ground just long enough to hurl the sturdy crossbow end over end into the beast’s open jaws. The weapon lodged for only a heartbeat before the creature crunched it apart in a burst of splinters and steel.

  But the distraction had done its job.

  The behemoth barreled forward and crashed headlong into one of the thick wooden banquet tables. The entire structure exploded into debris, sending roasted meats, shattered goblets, and gilded plates flying across the ballroom.

  Stunned and disoriented, the creature staggered.

  The moment of confusion gave the warriors time to regroup and converge on their massive foe.

  From the edge of the hall, Aehyl felt her sigil pulsing wildly against her skin.

  She closed her eyes and surrendered fully to the magic.

  Raw energy surged through her, and with a whispered chant she wove chaos itself into the warriors’ blades. One by one, their weapons shimmered to life, glowing with an eerie, emerald-green aura.

  Ceremonial steel became something far deadlier.

  Biaun gripped his newly enchanted blade—a fine weapon salvaged from the Order—and surged forward. The creature was wheezing now, its massive chest heaving like a pair of bellows. Sweat and gore clung to its hide. It was still stronger, still dangerous, but its endurance was waning.

  Press the advantage, Biaun thought grimly.

  The beast flung half a broken table aside and raised both arms in a wild downward arc, trying to crush him in one savage blow.

  But the attack was slow and telegraphed.

  Biaun rolled forward, beneath the swing, and brought his glowing blade around in a clean arc. It met the thick bicep of the creature’s unwounded arm with a hiss like steam on steel.

  The monster recoiled—its eyes wide in surprise.

  It screamed, not just in pain, but in something close to confusion. The searing wound burned deep, and the wild, untamed magic scorched through its flesh with a vengeance it hadn’t expected.

  Snarling in fury, the beast ignored the others entirely and lunged at Biaun, reckless now—throwing its full weight and bulk like a living battering ram.

  But the knight was too quick.

  Each powerful grapple missed its mark, and Biaun danced just out of reach, slipping between the claws and ducking beneath flailing limbs.

  The creature hissed, low and venomous, its frustration mounting with every failed attempt. Then, without warning, it twisted sharply—an unpredictable, rage-fueled spin.

  Its massive arm came whirling around, aiming to take the knight’s head clean off.

  Biaun reeled back, the strike missing him by inches.

  He stumbled but caught his balance, breath ragged, eyes never leaving the beast. Despite the risk, he held his ground—deliberately keeping its attention fixed on him.

  Because behind the demon, the others were closing in.

  The enraged creature stalked Biaun like a beast possessed—clawing, grunting, lunging with ever more desperate attacks. Its focus had narrowed completely now, ignoring all blind spots in its single-minded pursuit of the knight.

  That tunnel vision proved costly.

  Three enchanted blades struck from behind, biting into its thick hide—shallow wounds, but wounds nonetheless.

  Aehyl’s magic had imbued the brittle steel with chaos, not strength, and though the weapons didn’t shatter like Biaun’s original blade had, they failed to drive deep enough for a killing blow.

  Still, something was happening.

  The real power of Aehyl’s spell revealed itself not in the depth of the wounds, but in what followed them.

  Around each cut, angry boils erupted—pulsing blisters forming across the beast’s chest, back, and arm. The infection spread quickly, originating from the site of Biaun’s earlier strike and branching outward like roots of rot. Its massive frame trembled. Its ruined chest rose and fell in labored heaves.

  The enchantment was working.

  Whatever magic Aehyl had sewn into those blades was now coursing through the creature’s blood like wildfire.

  And it was killing it—slowly, agonizingly.

  The onyx sheen of the creature’s hide had dulled, graying visibly as the toxins surged through its system. But the weakening only seemed to enrage it further. No longer moving with purpose, the beast lashed out unpredictably—switching targets at random, a cyclone of brute instinct and dying fury.

  One of its massive arms swung wide, and with a sickening crack, it caught Ean square in the chest. The blow sent the large man cartwheeling across the ballroom, crashing into the shattered remains of a banquet table.

  He collapsed in a heap and did not rise.

  Before anyone could reach him, the monster spun again—drunken, staggering—and snapped up the next nearest figure. Barth Aisley, the brave but ill-equipped sharecropper who had joined the fray to help, barely had time to scream before the creature’s gaping maw clamped shut.

  His upper torso vanished in a burst of gore, and what remained fell twitching to the ground.

  Portean moved the instant the beast turned its head.

  The elven ranger sprinted low and fast, blades flashing. As he darted past the creature’s flank, he slashed deep into the tendons behind its left knee.

  The monster roared and stumbled. Its wounded leg gave way entirely, and it toppled sideways with a thunderous crash—its massive body collapsing onto its own useless limb.

  It thrashed violently, desperate to crush the warriors still standing. But its strength was fading.

  One by one, the surviving fighters surged in—Biaun, Portean, Ove, even a bruised and bloodied Calix. They struck as one, each blade glowing with Aehyl’s chaotic enchantment.

  And with every blow, the pestilence spread further.

  Boils burst. Flesh withered. Steam and rot leaked from gashes that burned like acid. The beast fought to the bitter end, but its howls grew fainter, its flailing weaker.

  At last, it fell still.

  The only sound left was the ragged breathing of the exhausted warriors, many now on their knees, blades limp in their hands, slick with blood and sweat.

  Ove rushed to Ean, who lay still amid the shattered remains of the banquet table.

  The captain’s breathing was ragged, and a massive purple bruise had already begun to bloom across his chest and shoulder—where the brunt of the monstrous blow had landed. It was clear he would live, but not without cost. Several ribs were likely broken, and his sword arm hung limp and useless at his side.

  Scanning the wreckage of the ballroom, Biaun quickly realized the emperor, his family, and their court magi were nowhere to be seen. Kia-Aret, apparently, had been whisked away with them. He exhaled, relieved. The Obsidian Order had done their duty—no doubt whisking the royals from harm’s way at the first sign of true danger.

  The only member of House Ozewrath still visible was Prince Talose, fighting alongside the emperor’s personal guard with surprising vigor. From the looks of it, the surviving Order had rallied around him.

  A half-dozen reptilian corpses lay sprawled near the prince and his team. Closer by, Biaun spotted Grimus and Aehyl—both leaning heavily against each other, utterly spent. Neither would make it to their quarters without assistance.

  Gritting his teeth, the gruff knight forced his tired legs into motion and moved to support them. With Portean’s help, he guided the exhausted druids out of the chaos and into one of the quieter adjoining chambers.

  An hour later, the ballroom had been transformed.

  Beds lined the walls in haphazard rows, and priests flitted from patient to patient, working tirelessly in a swirl of bloodied robes and whispered prayers. There was no real organization—only urgency.

  The assassins had failed in their mission.

  But it had not been a clean victory.

  The price of survival was high.

  Thirty were dead. Fifteen more wounded—and only five of those were expected to recover.

  Among the slain: many elite soldiers of the Obsidian Order, imperial nobles and merchants, a mercenary, a humble sharecropper…

  …and a queen.