Chapter 47

I opened my spiritual eye, searching for signs of mana use. I found them, around toward the far side of the district, near the another gate that led deeper into the city. We headed that way, not particularly working to hide our passage. Soon enough we came across a group of Pure soldiers, their white and gold attire stained with red and black.

Ten fighting men, trained soldiers instilled with the fervor of their most high god. If they were here taking the city then they were certainly veterans, either of heretic purges or demon hunts. Against Myta and I, they never stood a chance.

We flowed into motion as soon as they came into view, not using an iota of mana. We needed to conserve our strength for the real fights that lay ahead. Myta dashed to their right flank, our left, with only her body’s base speed. But even without calling on her mana, she had become incredibly fast. She closed the distance before their front rank had even begun to shout their challenge, and screams of pain and surprise left their lips.

These Pure were armed with swords and shields, and my flame’s blade bit into the neck of one before he had a chance to properly raise the latter. He gurgled as he staggered backward into the group, throwing them out of formation. Twice more she lashed out in the blink of an eye, killing two more men. That third man, however, got his shield up. Though her riversteel blade punched through it, the wood bound her blade, opening her up for a counter. I was still too far back to physically stop it, but my lancet severed the arm of the man attacking her, at least in spirit. His blade dropped from nerveless fingers, after it skipped ineffectually off her leather scale. Moments later he died with her blade in his chest.

It didn’t take long, Myta’s glaive was a whirlwind, deflecting attacks and spilling blood. My own invisible strikes slipped around her, our coordination perfect as our minds sang in harmony. It was difficult to land killing blows in the chaos of combat while using the lancet at range, so I didn’t bother trying to. Instead I crippled their arms and legs, making them easy prey for my vas. The fight was over before it had even truly begun, and we moved on.

Twice more we encountered Pure forces. Squads of only five men, who tried to ambush us from the abandoned buildings. Clearly they were attempting to infiltrate in smaller groups, which implied to me that there were fewer of them within the city than we had faced in the tunnels. Good news, if we could deal with any demons and sorcerers here. As we neared our target, I could sense their aspect more clearly. It was something fiery and golden, and I steeled myself. One of the senior monks of the Pure was there.

We hurried to the location as Myta picked up on my urgency. I could feel only half the battle, the fire aspected mana washing out anything else. I felt the flare of spells, filled with killing intent. Even from here the self righteousness layered in the mana made me sick with rage. Even at my most foolish, I’d rejected that kind of blind arrogance.

More spells flared, and I had to **** myself to keep a sustainable pace. But when I felt the sorcerer cut off mid-spell I instead pushed myself into the fastest sprint I could manage, even drawing on my mana now to enhance my speed.

We rushed out into a square, with some kind of fountain in the middle. Bodies were scattered around on the paving stones, many of them nothing more than charcoal lumps. The corpse of the monk lay over the rim of the fountain, with a half-dozen spears in his back. The city guardsmen must have caught him by surprise, hitting him with a multitude of blows too weak to penetrate deeply. It was an impressive feat, but the guardsmen were celebrating, clearly unaware of the consequences

I tried to throw my presence over the body, to rend the lingering anima. But the monk had been too strong, and I was too late. I screamed at the men standing over the corpse, but instead of running as I bade them they of course raised their weapons towards me. It was too late for them, the fiery presence had all withdrawn, condensed down already. I could feel the tension in the air, the storm that was waiting to break.

Reversing my actions, I pulled my presence in tight around Myta and myself. Trying to shield us as the dead sorcerer’s spirit erupted, immolating the monk’s corpse, and all those standing nearby. They didn’t have time to scream, the very air in their lungs burning away in an instant. Those closer to the edge had at least a chance to survive, though their flammable gear was set alight, and any metal branded their skin. Those at least had time to give voice to their pain. Whether that extra time was a cruelty or a mercy was not for me to say.

In the wake of the immolation, the newborn spirit rose. It was vaguely humanoid, being formed of rods of golden light, tipped with jagged ends that resembled broken glass. Those tips were blackened, and dripped with ethereal blood. It stood perhaps eight feet tall, a skeletal monstrosity wreathed in flame. Odd looping swirls of anima draped over its main meridians, like pasta dangling from a spoon, flickering with sullen mana.

*Strike at it now,* I sent to Myta. Favoring the mental speech for its swiftness and clarity. *Your weapon will not harm it, but your sorcery will. Try to drain its mana, if you can.*.

We charged the monster in tandem, closing the distance as it stared at its own fingertips, flexing its hands as though trying to work out some puzzle. The sagging, noodle-like meridians were already beginning to tighten around the skeleton, slithering like snakes, or exposed muscles. I slashed one with my lancet, forcefully drawing out as much of its mana as I could. But a spirit, even a newborn spirit, had far greater control of its mana. Only my new mastery of fire, borrowed from Myta, allowed me to draw a bright plume from the wound.

Hissing, the spirit rounded on me, arms flailing in wild strikes. I avoided the blows easily, but I knew that the spirit would grow more coordinated each second the battle lasted. I struck again, and again, opening more wounds in its anima. Each breach to its form leaked mana at my urging, but it drained slowly, moving like cold honey.

On the opposite side of the creature, Myta dealt her own wounds. Her sorcery was advanced enough to face a spirit now, but her own fiery aspect made little impression. In frustration, she called on my skill to create her silver flames. It was a good idea, the more conceptual fires of change might make a greater impact, though I worried that would be balanced by her lower affinity.

My distracted musing cost me, as I was unprepared for the spirit’s increasing speed. It lashed out at me again, catching my left bicep with its claws. The jagged edges tore my anima, allowing fiery mana into my body. Searing agony accompanied the smell of roasting meat, but I pushed it aside as I skipped backwards, leaving another wound behind.

Myta screamed in outrage, fazing the spirit not at all. I felt her mana surge, and even felt her try to draw on mine. I let her, trusting to my vas. I could already see that this battle was not in our favor. We could wear the spirit down eventually, but my mistake had cost us the time we’d need. Who would have imagined a Pure monk dying with so much mana remaining?

The spell that Myta formed was simple, but it was the most perfectly realized one that she had ever produced. Far from the complexity of a human, this spirit had only a single major node. With a second scream, Myta thrust her spear, a ray of silver fire striking that central node. It erupted in encircling bands, constricting and attempting to eat into the spirit’s core.

The spirit froze, straining against her, and I had a moment of indecision. I could strike now, capitalizing on its moment of weakness, or I could bolster Myta’s will, which I sensed was in conflict with our enemy.

In truth, it wasn’t much of a decision. I would support my flame. I leaned into our bond, putting my will behind her. Bracing her against the spirit’s rage as though we were two people standing in a river, pushing against the current. As I did I felt her intention, and it was ambitious.

She was trying, not to kill the spirit, but to subvert its essence. Transforming its aspect into her own silver fire. Spirits had no souls, no grounding other than their aspect to maintain their personality and goals. If she could change its aspect she could change its entire nature, least in theory.

In practice, while I knew that many spirits changed their aspects and identities over time, I knew of no successful attempts to impose such a change forcefully. But if anyone could do such a thing, we could.

In my mind’s eye I could see our foe. This spirit had once been a human, pale skinned and tattooed, with blonde hair and green eyes. Already that sense of self was fading. He hadn’t died in his sleep, unaware of the change.

Instead he had been dragged screaming into the afterlife, through bloody ****, well aware of his end. Enraged, and struggling to his last breath. As such, his human memories and seeming were tattered, blowing away in the face of our contest of wills. He, it, hunched and stalked toward us, burning with murderous intent. Sloughing off false flesh with every step.

Myta struggled to push the spirit back, to **** her will upon it. With my support she pushed it to a standstill. We hung in balance, my vas and I were perfectly aligned. My weathered stubbornness was a foundation for her burning desire. But the spirit had shed its mortal frailties, it was the embodiment of self-assured wrath.

Even my age had not stripped me of uncertainty, and Myta’s will still depended far too much on my approval. Facing the spirit this way, in a direct challenge of might, would likely not go our way.

I shared my thoughts with Myta, and we acted together, without hesitation. Our pressure against the spirit fell away, and it’s rage burst at us, into us. Spirits burning, we pulled, sending all three of us tumbling into the abyss.