Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

She went on, “The ritual’s at dawn, and the night’s already well past its mid. Before the sun clears the horizon they’ll be dead!”

I’d had enough, so I gave in to my fury.

Unarmed, I reached into the celestial to try and weave a casting to stop her, something that would leave me free to go. She was powerful – a favoured high priest – so I knew I’d need to draw a lot of magic through to overcome her. I began that task, that manipulation, but straight away I realised that something restricted my power.

The Moonroot!

What I’d done before – of igniting gravel and summoning wind of the elemental – hadn’t required much effort, but what I needed now demanded a whole lot more. Simply, the Moonroot blocked it.

Back in the real world, she drew a fresh blade.

I had to do something, anything, but I’d only have this one chance.

And so my power bucked!

I might not have been able to drag power through to stop her mortal form, but I could still work things in the celestial. Great tentacle-like limbs unrolled from my soul’s core lashing out to ensnare her own. With a violent jerk they sought to overcome her.

Back in the real world she started and gasped.

I raised my flaring fists to rest them on her shoulders, the light of the near molten stones held within them made my fingers glow red and showed the shadow of bones. Apprehensive, she tried to wriggle away from the heat, so I hissed, “She’s scared of the light!”

She whispered, “What are you?”

And for an answer, I unleashed myself upon her.

My celestial limbs tightened again, flexing and constricting to open tears along her soul’s core. I upped the pressure to send her soul-stuff to bursting out, spraying off into the chill depths of the void.

Some of it hit my own soul. It felt good; the taking of power. It reminded me of the high I’d gotten from my followers, but this came more intense and pure.

Lost in that rising rush, I found myself working to take in more of her soul-stuff as it escaped. Finally, overwhelmed by the euphoric sensation, I found myself tearing open her soul to sup at her – her very existence.

In the real world I sighed, it rising into a wail, and then into Schoperde’s Song. I sang it like it’d never been sung before, setting waves rushing out along the river, celestial sparks to flash and flare, and great coiling bolts of power to roll around me.

The Loyalist crowd coming into St Marco’s kept back, many screaming in fright. At the same time, Lady Death’s voice hissed out of her ruin as a long and mournful sigh. She’d be dead in moments, and not because of the lightning coursing through her and me, but because her soul was nearly gone.

Oblivion waited.

And then it was done.

Sated, I returned my perception to the real world.

It was hard to focus, to concentrate, to even breathe after experiencing such a thing.

So, I confessed to myself, that was soul feeding…

The taking of someone’s soul until they died…

Every sense in me sung, my body tingled, the knife wound had healed, and my head spun.

By all the gods, I wished I’d never done it!

Having tasted it, I knew I’d have the urge to feed again, and its lure would forever be hard to resist. What I faced was nothing short of the temptation of Death’s addiction. If I gave into it, I’d be failing not only myself, but also the cause of Life.

In front of me, Lady Death’s body fell crumpled and wasted to the scorched boards of the bridge.

I still sang the Song of Sorrow, but it certainly wasn’t to mourn her. I wondered at that; maybe it was because of my own loss of innocence.

What had I done?

That was when I noticed the crowds gathered in Newbank. Most of them were Flets seething with anger, riled by the accusations of murder called out by Loyalists.

In so many eyes – on both sides – burned a mindless lust for revenge. Their anger was fuelled by their bloody-minded gods, and for no good reason but to service their own divine addictions.

If I was to have a part in unseating them from their heavenly thrones, I’d be glad of it. I’d do it even at my own cost if it would bring their whole order crashing down so Schoperde could start afresh.

Above the roar of flames, yelled abuse, and my own singing, I heard others join my song. It reminded me that there was – as there always should be – still hope.

Hope.

I still had to save my family, find the innocent, and then lead them to safety. Despite all the hatred, some love remained.

The crowd of Loyalists in St Marco’s glared in anger, blaming me for Ossard’s ills, but I didn’t care. Further along the river towards the port, mobs of Reformers spilled into the streets, armed, and coming to meet them. I then turned to look upon Newbank where tens of thousands lined the riverbank. Over there were all sorts; some who hated me, others who feared me, and my own people led by Baruna.

She had them gathering at the other end of the bridge where she stood at its charred end. It was they who sang, joining with me to call me home.

I could see others standing amongst my enemies on all sides looking on in wonder. They were almost convinced.

To the roar of my people, I stepped out from the charred planks of the bridge to walk across the void to Newbank.

I knew without question where my power was coming from now; my people. I couldn’t deny it.

Today the world would change.

I whispered to Schoperde, “Your daughter is born.” And I prayed to her; may my family be waiting while Marco watches over them, and may Sef, my most loyal friend, also be safe.

Oddly, using my celestial senses, Marco didn’t seem to be there. In checking the bond I’d established between us, I realised that something was amiss.

I let the glowing stones drop from my hands to fall into the river below. With my crossing all but complete, I then took my first step onto the Newbank side of the bridge’s scorched boards to be greeted by fresh cheers.

Baruna took my hands. “It’s so good to have you back.” And my people parted so we could pass through.

Their happiness was uplifting, giving me another high. But the sensation reminded me of a new and aching hunger I harboured – for soul-feeding.

The crowd parted so I could move ahead, many held torches, others lanterns, and even a few clutched at candles that dribbled hot wax. My people; they’d waited for me, knowing that I’d return.

They had faith.

But with my return came the city’s fall, and our exodus could no longer wait. By sunrise Newbank would be swarming with Loyalists and be at the heart of the city’s woes. The city of Merchant Princes was gone, as was the Inquisition’s short-lived pious empire, for now came the dark days of Death’s Ossard; a bleak and ruined boneyard of violence and decay.

Beyond my people stood so many more. Most of them cheered at the sight of fresh fires across the river, some with wicked grins, but there were others who prepared to face the Loyalists with all the dignity that our ancestors had mustered to meet the fury of the genocide.

So this was Ossard’s end…

I said, “Let those who want peace and to survive the fall of the city follow, for soon we’ll be ready to leave – after I’ve attended to my family.”

Baruna nodded.

Sections of the crowd whispered about us; word had spread of the link between the kidnappings and Kurgar. I could see groups arguing, some not quietly. The news seemed to have split Newbank. Some didn’t believe it, but others did, remembering a slow stifling of the peaceful faiths by a Guild always blaming the need for secrecy.

My own followers crowded deeply around, perhaps as many as a thousand. About them thronged many more who’d come to see me for themselves. It was these souls, I realised, that I had to win over to make a difference, to salvage something from the coming fall of the city.