David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“Here goes,” he whispered. Safely undoing a knot was one thing. Chopping it in half with a sword was another. With but a thought, he pulsed magic into the tile, putting whatever spell was buried in its center into motion.

The runes vanished, and for a moment, all was silent. Tarlak’s skin tingled with anticipation. This was it, the true purpose of the tiles, the reason for their very existence. In its center he watched a tiny black spot appear, crackling with white lightning. It shimmered, then vanished. The tile cracked, its center rimmed with fire, and then Tarlak had the briefest moment to react before the shock wave hit him. As a great roar shook his being, he crossed his arms, enacting a protection spell out of pure instinct. The ground trembled beneath him, and then suddenly, he was flying through the air. When he landed, he rolled, and all the while, he heard nothing but a constant ringing. When he came to a stop, Brug was hovering over him, his mouth moving but producing no words. It was only when the ringing faded that Brug’s voice finally returned.

“…all right, Tar?”

Instead of answering, Tarlak pushed himself up to a sitting position, and with his mouth hanging open, he stared at where the tile had once been. In its place was a gaping crater, and fire burned within it, the flames a deep violet. On either side, the homes were shattered, the roofs collapsed in and the wood already aflame. Even the great stone wall, which had surrounded the city since the day Karak himself built it, was cracked, with large portions having collapsed and layering the surrounding area beneath with debris.

“My god, Tar,” Brug said, staring with his mouth hanging open. “What did you do?”

“What it was meant to do,” Tarlak said, viewing the wreckage while feeling dazed and lost. Another large chunk of the wall collapsed, the rumble deafening, as was the sound of the stone breaking upon the road, sending pieces rolling in all directions.

“One tile,” Brug said, and he sounded as horrified as Tarlak felt. “How many throughout the city are there?”

“As of last count?” asked Tarlak as all around people flooded out of their homes to see what was the matter. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he thought of all their planning, their little map detailing the tiles’ locations. Not a single street unmarked. Not a man or woman safe. He put a hand on Brug’s shoulder and slowly stood as dust and stone fell.

“Over three hundred and twenty-seven.”

For once, Brug was speechless. Tarlak watched the strange purple flames dwindle down to nothing in the crater, and he let out a sigh.

“Brug,” he said. “We’re fucked.”