Spawn of Dyscrasia (Dyscrasia Fiction Book 3) by S.E. Lindberg

Author:S.E. Lindberg [Lindberg, S.E.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: dyscrasia, necromancy, sorcery, fantasy, alchemy, sword, magic
Publisher: IGNIS Publishing LLC
Published: 2014-08-13T00:00:00+00:00

IV: Bog Battle

The Empresses’ magical web resonated around her. Pulses of energy sparkled, spiraling along astral pathways from the chepris’ flags toward their center, where she remained enthroned atop the behemoth. Her every move was being scrutinized. This she knew.

Lysis observed his opponent now carefully. The Doctor grew anxious for orders. “Will you charge her?”

“She weaves a trap.” Lysis withdrew from the ramparts, striding to his Pyre. “Her sorcery is strongest at the center of her army. I will not meet her there. Instead, I will draw her out.”

“What are you doing?” The Doctor asked, following behind.

Lysis had stepped into his fire. Sparks cascaded from his legs. Orange flames heated his armor. Satiated from the mystical bath, his aura burned brilliant white. The lord bent over to sift his hands through the ash. He found a papyrus sheet amongst the burnt offerings, folded it, and then tempered the form with an extended arm. “Preparing an invitation.”

“You invite the enemy Empress into the Keep?”

The skeletal warrior cupped his hands, blew into them, feeding the flame that was the burning messenger’s life force. “Nay. Only to the causeway in the bogs. To deal, face to face.”

“Lord, to what end does a discussion lead?”

“Battle is the only end,” Lysis growled. “To begin with, I isolate her from her nexus of magic. You will come with me.”

“Should I ready my ax? Or shall I bring the decoy?”

“Both.”

Grave began to hail the liverymen, and directed the curators to mount.

“No need for them, Doctor. My retinue will stay behind the walls.”

“Very well, Lord. And your means to replenish your power if needed?”

The death’s head replied. “I have plans. If the need arises.”

“So we alone go down?”

“Once she accepts.” Lysis released the sprite. It navigated the wind with the indirect grace of a falling snowflake. Turbulence rocked its delicate wings. Drafts along the mountain carried it on tumultuous currents, over the still black bogs, through the gauntlet of the advancing rays, toward the Empress.

From the ragged walls of the Chromlechon Keep, within deep recesses hidden from the sun, the Grotto Folk that were too curious to seek shelter watched. These children remained paralyzed by deafening sounds. No longer did they hear the creaking of their paper mill, rotating beneath the waterfall without supervision. The mill was running itself, and now rogue, untreated sheets took flight from the press. These strained to join the magical invitation’s trajectory, which was guided by the magical harmonics of kerning hybrids toward its proper destination. The Folk watched their Lord’s note fly over the tall grass that surrounded the bogs, the very fields used to make paper. Over the naked trees within the tar pits, along the corridor between the first of two clusters of the army it raced, toward the center of the six-pronged star.

The Empress sat upon her golem centimani, her pearly hands taking hold of the sprite. She was not accustomed to the possession of inanimate objects, so the invitation’s movement was a curiosity. She released it when its message was theatrically delivered.

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