A crack in the earth as wide as Vantra’s foot raced to them from the direction of the docks. Trevel screamed at his people, who scampered from the cliff as the fissure broadened and snaked over the edge.
The ronyx reared and kicked as the ground shuddered; the three from the stables streaked away, racing back to their home, while the ghosts from the fort cut reins free from the brush they tangled with, letting their mounts flee rather than let them fall into the crumbling earth.
More cracks ran through the soil, long tendrils shooting over the rim and into the hollow, spreading across and tearing through the other cliff face with a magic-born ferocity that ripped apart stone. Rock and thick dust blew into the air, and the shrieks and yells from the Nevemere and their animals reverberated off the sides. The crevices widened, sending new veins across the dry surface while the soil and stone crumbled into the maws.
Trevel had Kenosera by the arm, Kjaelle in close attendance. Vantra did not reach them before the earth sundered between them and a foul black cloud billowed from the depths, hints of green lightning flickering within. The foulness drove her towards the cliff, but the deteriorating edge did not offer a stout platform. She struggled to outrace the cracks downhill, but the ground caved in, and she slid into the hole; the rush of debris carried her into the hollow.
Fyrij’s terrified trill rose above the gushing sound of cascading soil. Roots and fractured rock snagged her and the pack; she gripped the straps as the right side of her cloak caught on a jutting shard of broken stone and ripped, half the cloth and the badge tearing away. The caroling shoved himself into the back of her neck, talons digging into her scalp, trembling.
She hit the bottom and rolled, anxiety pummeling her. Had she hurt the avian? No, his breathy, strained twittering did not sound pained. But she had lost Passion’s protection! At least she had not hidden her Sun badge below it. A double punch of guilt for losing two syimlin-blessed badges would have infused her for days. Bad enough, she needed to apologize to Verryn about her terrible stewardship.
“Vantra!” Laken screamed.
“I’m fine! Are you?”
“Nomad!”
What? She whirled, and a knife tore through her essence, slicing from her shoulder and down her arm. Energy escaped as she gasped and slapped her hand over the wound, while the woman who struck her reared back, aghast.
The scream of the Sun item blared through the hollow; she knew the living did not perceive it, but how handy that would be at the moment. She winced and stumbled from the Nevemere, who recovered and slashed at her, driving her to the large tent. Fine, she wanted to go that way, even if ominous numbers of cracks littered the ground beneath it. How much longer, before it collapsed into the earth?
Her assailant smacked into the shield Vantra planted behind her and fell, screeching, covering a bleeding nose. The Sun object screamed again, and she slapped her hands over her ears before racing into the tent opening, wishing that would blot out the sound. The ground rumbled and jolted, and she dived into the bound, bare feet of a shrieking nomad.
She rolled onto her palms and knees, the pack rolling to the side and unbalancing her. “Who are you?” she asked as she hefted it back in place, ignoring Laken’s irritated growl.
The other woman choked. “We’re Lesanova and Dedari. Please, help us! We’ve done nothing wrong!”
Kenosera’s companions! Vantra formed a stouter shield over the tent opening and turned back to the two. They sat to the right-hand side, near a gold-beaded chest and several sagging leather packs. A stout table with gold cloth, one rickety chair, and a carpet with folded bedding and several plump gold cushions crowded into the rest of the space, but luckily, no enemy Nevemere.
Rope thicker than her thumb bound the captives, hands and feet, with a loop about their necks that tied to another around their knees. She sharpened her index fingertip on her right hand, hoping, with the backing of magic, she could slice through the bindings.
The ground rocked, and all three lurched about. One nomad struck the chest; a smaller, plain box settled on the top wobbled and fell, the wood cracking open as it rolled. A long, faceted shard of gold tumbled from it and landed on the dusty carpet, screaming, and Vantra winced at the pain it produced.
“Shh.” She snagged it; it immediately silenced. Good.
“Vantra,” Laken snarled. “What is that?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t belong here.” She cut the ropes binding the woman who hit the chest, severing the twine about the knees, then the feet, the hands; the nomad jerked the loop over her head as she freed the second. This one had bruising running from her ankles up into the cuffs of her pants; had she injured herself, or had the Nevemere harmed her to prevent her from escaping?
“Can you walk?”
She jumped to her feet. “Oh, yes—”
A stronger jolt knocked them into the stout poles holding that side of the tent in place. Fyrij sang an agitated note as they shuddered and collapsed, dropping the fabric onto them. Laken hissed, the caroling dug his talons into her neck, and Vantra stood, lengthening all her fingers to shred the tent in frantic swipes. The two nomads grabbed the long tears and pulled, ripping a larger hole they could squeeze through.
The woman with the knife scrambled around the lopsided tent, bright red smeared across her face and down her chest. Vantra swirled a shield around them, intercepting the blade with a finger-length to spare. The edge scratched along her magic, and she added more layers, in case it broke through.
“They’re surrounding you,” Laken called.
Three others arrived, spears ready to poke them. Two stumbled to their knees as the ground disintegrated under their feet, and they scrambled to keep from tumbling into the expanding, lightning-shaped opening. The third stamped onto the fallen side of the tent and heaved his weapon at the younger nomads. It clattered against the shield and spun away.
More of the nearest cliff collapsed, and fine cracks ran from it to divide the surface of the hollow, as if the soil were a shattered pane of glass. Vantra had only a moment to worry about it; a woman with white and black paint on her face, like the vi-van in town, strode to them, carrying a replica of the spears she saw in the sewers during her escape from Evening. The symbols on the shaft glowed a fierce orange-red, and the point held a simmering Darkness spell that felt as still and dark as a coffin’s interior. The woman reared and threw; the tip splintered the shield layers and sailed through, taking both sides out.
The knife wielder retrieved the weapon as the earth beneath them vibrated. All switched their stance and held out arms for balance; Vantra used the distraction to erect more shielding and slap layers onto it, hoping the added number mitigated the spear’s magic.
Nomads shouted; the animals had escaped their corral and ran to the entrance, plowing over whoever stepped in their way. They careened towards the large tent and away from a larger group of Nevemere waving their arms, kicking dirt and dust everywhere. The spear wielders leapt out of the way of pounding hooves, which shredded the fallen fabric and jostled the tent hard enough, the rest of it collapsed in a plume of dust.
“Run!” Vantra screamed at the women she rescued.
They ran in the wake of the terrified animals, the shadow of orange clouds concealing their escape. Her nomad assailant missed the two captives but intercepted her with a guttural shout, stabbing at her. She arched away, avoiding the point but tangling with the tattered remains of the tent fabric. So much for her escape.
“Fyrij, get them to the cliff!”
The little avian streaked away from her hood, startling everyone near and giving her time to throw separate shields over the receding presences of Lesanova and Dedari. He shot into the dust cloud, past the Nevemere helping their fellows from collapsed tents, past those standing in shock, too numb to act. Two of the spear wielders pivoted to follow, but the vi-van shouted and pointed at the gold shard, her index finger trembling.
They stopped and returned to their leader. The nomad with the nasty spear grinned, a mix of malicious joy and anticipation, and clenched the weapon in both hands. She did not throw it but rammed the tip through the shields.
Her protection broke, as easily as if her opponent shattered an egg. She failed to avoid the point, and it tore through her cloak and left shoulder. Pain raced through her essence and shock froze her; she had not experienced it since her death. Unless incredibly gifted in Mental Touch, ghosts had no mechanism to feel pain, and the few that did never bothered to refine it. Why would they?
The woman sliced, skimming her chest just above her dress. Black fog rose from the wound, and panicking, she obliterated it with a hefty dose of mindless Sun energy. Her opponent snatched her wrist and the wailing of the gold shard pierced her ears, as painful as the spear’s slice.
“The vi-van, Vantra!” Laken yelled.
She raised shields, and the attack splatted against them. She could not define the spell, but the inky Darkness she associated with Rezenarza’s acolytes flavored it. Fear paraded up her essence; she did not want the magic to touch her.
Layers of shielding trapped the woman holding her wrist. She jerked and shrieked, and the next hit, simmering with deadly Darkness, obliterated all of Vantra’s protections. The nomad stumbled back, free, and she formed shields yet again, layering as fast as she could, expending enough energy that the tickle that alerted her to power drain paraded through her. She needed to get out of there because one or the other would nail her with the Darkness magic, and she might not reform her defenses in time.
Large fissures littered the hollow. The only way forward was to race to the entrance, and the fractures in the surface made the prospect a labyrinth; in Physical Form, she could break through the soil and fall into a crevice. How far down might she go? She did not want to find out.
She ran towards the collapsing cliff, reinforcing her protections.
Two spear holders intercepted her, smacking their hands against the magic, stopping her progress. Green lightning snaked around their palms and crackled over the outer shell before digging in and shattering the exterior layers. She pivoted, but the vi-van stood in the way.
“The spear’s behind you!” Laken shrieked.
The vi-van slammed magic into the shields; power brimming with the deepest void of darkness backed the attack. The swirling mass zipped through her defenses, through her, continued. The landscape fuzzed as she lost the ability to sense her surroundings. Grey haze filled her as her essence spurted away from her. She strained for the receding Ether as her thoughts became foggy. No, she had to keep what remained of herself together.
She sucked at her fleeing energy, lessening the flight. Everything else faded away into blackness, as she concentrated on crushing the millions of sparkling bits that formed her essence into a tight ball around her consciousness. To surround her, to keep her extant, to keep her whole.
To keep her Vantra.
