Paragon of Destruction

Half a dozen attacks all struck Arran at once, and there was a bright flash of blue light around him as Brightblade’s amulet was suddenly overwhelmed with Essence.

Against such an onslaught of magical energy, the amulet failed in an instant, barely even weakening the attacks before they hit. None of the attackers were weak, and their combined power was far beyond anything the amulet could defend against.

But if the streaks of Fire Essence easily tore through the amulet’s defenses with ease, Arran himself was a different matter.

Years of strengthening his resistance to Essence paid off in an instant as half a dozen attacks only barely scratched his skin. He knew immediately that his attackers were adepts, and he was long past the stage where adepts posed a serious threat.

Still, he allowed the impact to fling him to the ground, at the same time releasing the Essence he’d used to create the earthen wall. Fooling his opponents into thinking they’d killed him would buy him only a moment or two, but they were moments he could well use.

If this was the extent of the ambush, he had little to worry about. But if there was a stronger mage among his enemies, the situation could prove dangerous.

He spread out his Shadowsight even as he hit the ground, quickly noting the people nearby. There were three people on the road, all hurrying away from the sudden battle — bystanders, and ones he had noticed long before the attack.

But across the road, in the underbrush, he now detected six figures who had somehow escaped his notice earlier. His enemies. And they were moving forward hurriedly.

That there were six reassured him. It meant there wasn’t a stronger opponent lying in wait, ready to strike if the others failed.

"We got him," a low voice hissed, the anxious tremble it held unmistakable. "Let’s go!"

"Check if he’s dead," another replied, his tone more confident. "After—"

The man stopped mid-sentence as he Sensed the Force Shield Arran created, and an instant later, his eyes went wide with shock when the foe he had thought defeated came rushing toward him.

Arran did not bother to draw the sword at his side. Instead, he summoned the starmetal sword from his void ring, making it appear directly in his hand.

To their credit, none of the adepts hesitated in launching attacks as he dashed toward them. But it was no use. While their magic easily tore apart his Force Shield, the truth was that he didn’t need it — his body was many times stronger than any shield he could create.

The last of the adepts to speak was the first to die, Arran’s blade cleaving his body from shoulder to waist. Even as his body slumped to the ground another of his comrades died, head and body falling to the ground two paces apart.

Arran raised and lost another two Force Shields as he cut down a third adept, with more futile attacks striking him before he could create another shield.

The fourth adept seemed to understand something was amiss, and rather than wasting effort on useless magical attacks, he drew his blade.

It was the right move, but the wrong opponent — against Arran’s superior strength and swordsmanship, he barely lasted a second before he staggered backward with blood gushing from a deep wound in his chest. Another second and he fell to the ground, already dead.

Just two adepts remained, and by now, neither of those had much fight left in him.

One turned to run, and Arran was almost surprised that the Flamestrike he shot at his fleeing opponent burned a large hole straight through the man’s back.

His final opponent, meanwhile, fell to his knees, eyes filled with fear. "Don’t kill me! I will tell you who—"

He didn’t get the chance to finish the words, as his throat was pierced by Arran’s sword mid-sentence, killing him instantly.

As much as Arran wanted to know who was behind the attack, he could not let the man remain alive. He had seen Arran’s resistance to magic, and that was a secret Arran did not want revealed.

His opponents all dead, Arran prepared himself for the worst part of the fight.

He braced himself, then rammed the pommel of his sword into his own ribs, and twice more into his face for good measure. He groaned in pain, then carefully sat down on the ground, clutching his broken ribs.

Just a few moments later, one of the travelers who had earlier fled so fearfully returned to the scene. Now that the battle was over, his courage had clearly recovered.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly. "Are you all right?"

"An ambush," Arran responded between clenched teeth, his agony only partly feigned. "Get the guards."

"The guards!" the man said. "I will get the guards!" At once, he dashed off in the direction of the House of Seals, not giving Arran so much as a second look.

As Arran waited for the guards to arrive, he quickly searched his attackers’ void bags, though he was disappointed to find they contained nothing that suggested a reason for the attack.

It was obvious that these were House of Seals adepts, but other than that, there wasn’t a single clue about why they had attacked or whose orders they had followed in doing so.

There wasn’t enough time for a more thorough investigation, Arran knew. The House of Seals was barely a quarter-hour away even at a casual pace, and the guards would arrive in minutes.

With a sigh, he sat down again, and began to replay the attack in his head.

That the adepts had taken him off guard caused him no small amount of frustration. Perhaps he hadn’t been as careful as he should have been, but his Shadowsight should have caught them well before they attacked.

That it hadn’t meant there was a way to defeat it, and that was something he would need to fix sooner rather than later.

Equally frustrating was the mistake he had made at the start of the fight. He had instinctively raised an Earth Shield — too slow a defense for an attack he could already Sense was coming. It was a mistake borne from too much study and too little sparring, and one he would have to address.

Although it made little difference now — none of his shields had anywhere near the strength of his body — it was the type of bad habit that could one day kill him.

The guards arrived some minutes later, nearly two dozen of them, led by a severe-looking woman who looked at the bodies strewn across the ground with piercing eyes.

Next to her was the nervous man who had left some minutes earlier. His face was now red with excitement, and he was gesticulating wildly with his arms. "I told you it was true! I Sensed it myself! They flung all kinds of magic at him, and he was making shields as quickly as they could break them!"

The woman silenced the man with a gesture as she turned to face Arran.

"What happened here?" she asked, her calm voice holding a touch of coldness. Clearly, she wasn’t quite convinced that Arran was the victim rather than the attacker.

"It’s as he said," Arran replied. "I was ambushed. Got a bit banged up, but I’d say they got the worst of it."

"Aren’t you the Matriarch’s new apprentice?" one of the guards asked, wide-eyed as he stared at Arran.

"That I am," Arran replied, giving the man a bloody smile.

In an instant, the guards’ leader lost her previous calm expression. "You two," she barked at two of the guards, "bring word of this to the Matriarch. Now!"

As the two guards hurried off, she turned back to Arran. For some moments, she stared at him anxiously, appearing unsure of what to say. But then, she creased her brow, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to her.

"If you’re the Matriarch’s new apprentice," she began uncertainly, "aren’t you an initiate? How did you..."

Her voice trailed off as she looked at the bodies surrounding them, and Arran understood what she was thinking. How could a single initiate possibly defeat half a dozen mages?

His shields and self-inflicted wounds had fooled the only witness brave enough to return, but the guardswoman clearly had a sharper mind.

"I had protection," he said, holding up Brightblade’s amulet. The small piece of metal had lost its previous luster, turned to a dull gray by the attacks. "A defensive amulet. Though I doubt it still works after this. Between that and my shields, I just barely scraped through."

"A defensive amulet..." The woman looked at the small amulet in wonder. "I’ve never seen one of those before. Though for the Matriarch’s apprentice, I suppose it makes sense..." Her earlier puzzled expression now faded away, the explanation sufficient to satisfy her curiosity.

Silently, Arran hoped the explanation would suffice for the Matriarch as well, though he had some doubts about that.

"Let’s get those injuries of yours looked at," the woman said. Then, with a sharp look at the guards, she said loudly, "Secure the area until the Matriarch’s people arrive."