Chương 63: 2.39 A blade

Dervish stared through the floors and walls towards the dissipating presence of the Temporal Beacon. That was not good. Not good at all. For their foes to disable it they must have full control of the mayor. Full control of the living mayor, that is. There were precautions in place designed exclusively to prevent undead from using security clearance they might have possessed before being inflicted with the Betrayer's rot. That they had done this within seconds of being discovered did not bode well. Mind control…

Dervish was still estimating what the true threat was. It had affected his mind but only slightly. Miniscule misdirection. He should have asked for an examination when he had been in City Black; alas, some pride of House Blackburg has seemingly rubbed off on him. Either way, there was only one course of action.

"Elizabeth," he said. With the speed of his mind less than a second had passed. He took another Cord-Inviolable - it gloved white in his hand - and moved to give it to her. But as she reached to take it, he paused. Stared her down for a moment until she understood his meaning.

"One for Irwyn as well," she commanded and Dervish nodded. The cords were too valuable, even with the side effects. He couldn't give them away, nor could he even suggest as much. His many oaths to House Blackburg constricted him too far; they were the kind of a pact that was fundamentally unbreakable for it would not allow any violation. But a direct order from an Heiress? That could bypass many of them.

"For the next 5 hours you should be essentially immune to Soul magic," he explained, mostly for the boy's sake as both the young prodigies put the cords around their necks, letting the magic seep inside. Making their souls beyond violation.

"I see only three angles to resolving this disaster. Firstly, we can restart the Temporal Beacon. Second, we can disable or break the Dredge. Both of those will allow reinforcements to come in time. Third, we could destroy the phylactery."

"Phylactery?" Irwyn asked, doubtlessly frowning underneath the mask as the boy tended to when uncertain.

"Any undead of this power is undoubtedly a lich," Elizabeth explained.

"But they would have hidden it well…"

"It is a longshot but keep it in mind if all else fails," Dervish nodded.

"From now on, assume that everyone besides you two is compromised and prone to being taken over. Move quickly, move smartly, and perhaps we will reverse the situation without dying. Undead will likely be swarming the streets in minutes. Try to raise every alarm you can access but keep in mind every minute this situation is ongoing their numbers will swell. Now then, good luck."

"Are you leaving?" Elizabeth was alarmed.

"Of course," Dervish nodded.

"Someone has to distract the lich in charge of this entire debacle. Hopefully singular. I will try to stall them as long as feasible without giving them an opening to return to their phylactery. In the meantime, you will have to save the city – and by that yourselves. If our time runs out, I will try to solve it by brute force, though that will most likely still result in all of us dying."

"We will get it done," Irwyn nodded severely.

"Good luck to you as well, Dervish."

"Keep it for yourselves," Dervish shook his head, his feet leaving the ground, body carried upwards by hooks of Void magic at a negligible cost.

"I am beyond relying on luck." Then he was gone, flying across the city. The levels were… inconvenient for his mobility but he could move fast. So fast he had to shelter himself in a veil of the Void lest sound cracks before him. Lest just his speed damages some of the more fragile infrastructure. Already, he was feeling undead rising. Now that his mind was no longer subverted, he could feel the horde hiding in the sewers and in concealed pockets across the city.

How ironic, given that those used to be supply tunnels meant to fight exactly such armies. Dervish flew down and began to erase them. A dozen blades of Void magic followed in his wake as he obliterated the hordes before they could even react. Not just the meager zombies and lesser ghouls either. He focused on clusters or those that felt more powerful. Defiled mages, some close to the power they held in life, the rest twisted into attaining necromancy themselves.

Greater abominations, grafted from bodies human or otherwise. Amalgamations of several profaned souls merged into specters and banshees. Draugr the rare, undead who had attained conception. In other words, he hunted the limited elites meant to break resistance or raise the corpses of the slain population. Cornerstones of the whole attack. That could not be ignored. Dervish had been allowed to rampage for a whole minute and in that time slaughtered hundreds of the most dangerous arisen.

In big part that was possible because they we just leaving their hiding spaces and could not wander far - still concentrated in near their hiding spots. Still, it was not enough to be even a dent in the numbers he was now sensing It was, however, enough that he could not be allowed to keep going rampant. And only one being on the undead side could feasibly stop him - hopefully only one. The lich intercepted him. The creature took the form of a woman, grafted skin allowing it almost pass for a living being.

Until one looked for the details. For the lack of body heat, unnatural paleness, the first signs of overlooked rot. It immediately tried to steal Dervish's soul. Rip it out whole. That likely wouldn't have worked even without the Cord but it might have shaken him. With the cord active though the attack had no effect. Just the attempt still revealed that it had attained at least one Domain. A Ravener as the terminology went. Dervish hoped his own three would be enough. The lich frowned.

That meant they were probably young for their kind. Dervish had run up against some elder ones in an older lich war and those no longer remembered to move their mimicry of muscle. Not the last lich war from 17 years ago though. The previous one 45 years even before then – over 60 years ago in total. In fact, just 17 was a worryingly short delay between two such wars. It likely meant survivors from the last lurking about, scheming. The lich attempted to hit him with a tidal wave of strings then.

Pure soul magic likely meant to gradually wear down his defenses. Seeing that… Dervish retreated. Away and up. Now that the lich was on his tail and could not decide to go after Elizabeth instead, he was no longer obligated to remain close… as long as he could justify it as increasing her odds of survival. The undead mage followed him, shooting fast projectiles at first, then giving up when those proved futile. Incapable of even grazing Dervish as he danced around them.

He flew and flew until the ceiling above him disappeared. He was on the outskirts of the inner city so he headed up, seemingly attempting to eliminate any collateral damage of their upcoming fight. The lich did not try to stop him. Why would it? Time was in their favor. Such was the prolific nature of organized undead armies: The city would be overrun eventually. There were no mages besides Dervish himself present who could stop that and Abonisle's defenses were more targeted outwards rather than inwards.

Meant to stop armies marching on it, rather than those already inside – not to mention probably largely sabotaged. One of those defenses stirred now. The Proud Eye - as the massive formation above at the roof of one of the Spires was dubbed - took aim at Dervish… and failed to activate. Of course it did. He was a shadow of House Blackburg, his nature had been twisted and fettered until betraying his masters became inherently impossible for him.

No amount of deception would allow him to be considered a threat by the artifact of warfare, advanced enough to mimic some aspects of intelligence. Rather, just the attempt had likely shut the whole thing down, waiting for approval from someone high-ranked enough the Lich didn't have access to. That hopefully put it out of the picture for good… though it would have had the same reaction if the Lich attempted to fire it against Elizabeth anyway. And her success was likely the only thing that really mattered.

"The hard way it is then," the undead mage grunted as it caught up to Dervish. He could feel that he now had most of its attention. Not all of it yet though. That would soon change. It could not allow itself to lose its current body without inflicting critical wounds - the temporary weakness caused by resurrection via phylactery would make it a far easier target. On the other hand, if Dervish took any serious wounds, it could then proceed to repeatedly suicide charge him until he died of thousand cuts.

Death was a real possibility. For the first time in years his life was seriously threatened. For a being as close to the zenith of mortal power as he was such sensations were often frightening. And yet… If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. And yet his heart could not help but skip a beat.

"Shadow of House Blackburg, designation: Dervish," he spoke, recording his voice on a dozen little crystals. The lich stared at him but did nothing. The split second it started casting Dervish would have to answer in kind, however, time favored it – or so it thought. It did not mind letting him speak worthless words, neglecting to think of the story of it as many mages did - neglecting the omnipresence of Fate magic just because they did not posses affinity to wield it.

The hand of Logos remained ever present to this day, and although the Aspect had not changed Fate to disfavor undead inherently before their death, patterns and stories could move it. Give that extra bit of advantage that could mean all the difference.

"I have evaluated that in order to fulfill both my primary and secondary directives, it is the only course of action to intercept a lich of uncertain power. As per my oaths, I declare myself temporarily free of fetters." They both stared at each other a second longer. Then in the exact same moment began to cast. Words passing the lips at impossible speed yet still remaining perfectly legible for anyone who might listen. Such was the weight of their magic.

"I remember not that long-lost thought of a past that has long passed. Of distant dreams torn apart by screams into fragments stained. Yet one remained, in heart's last manse, A blade; A dance" Then, Dervish danced. He shed the prison of flesh, severed it into a thousand pieces. His magic coursed through every fiber of his being, then split. Transformed into something… purer.

A thousand ebony blades burst forth from what had been a mere man moments ago, each carrying a fragment of self - Yet each also being the whole. His mind moved faster, unfettered by the limitations of a mortal brain or the distractions of physical sensation. Moved with dexterity muscle could not support. He became a flurry of edges, a whirlwind of cutting black - each like a limb, an instrument in an orchestra. Though he no longer had a mouth, Dervish smiled, grinned like a madman.

For in that moment - no matter how fleeting - he was free. Of course, the lich had not been idle.

"Pessen swirrk wi pirrk peragoll az'taq Peragoll aq az' wi korre Dorre wi dorre" Though Dervish could not understand the words, the effect was clear. From the necromancer's form arose a tidal wave of fine white dust. Except, Dervish realized, those were not mere particles. Each of them was a soul, processed and shredded into nothing more than minuscule smithereens, then desecrated with necromancy into a semblance of undeath. Then it became a storm ready to grind anything it touched to yet more dust.

And still, Dervish knew no fear. A falchion cut a path for a glaive while a dagger, a knife, and a dirk fought to the side. A thousand different blades sung in unison. It became a battle of two storms, attempting to shred each other into nothingness. A thousand limbs moved every instant with individual intent. But Dervish was not just controlling his side of the fight. He was the flurry of blades and controlled himself with trained perfection.

With dexterity he allowed himself to suffer no loss as he methodically took the soulstorm apart. Of course, the lich did not remain idle. More lesser spells flew, one after the other. And Dervish matched them. Void and Soul collided. Again and again. Dervish found himself gaining ground. Though the storm of his opponent was larger, his form was more profound. More concentrated. Thousands of lesser spells were exchanged while the lich moved not an inch.

It could have regained much of the initiative just by slowly retreating. Sensing a trap Dervish was careful. Didn't allow himself to believe in an inevitable victory. Made sure to leave no opening as he drew closer. Minutes must have passed by the time he finally had an opening to strike at the lich's motionless body - an eternity for combatants on their level. Dervish still let that opportunity pass. It was too risky. He did not take up next three either, looking for something better.

Finally, for the fifth time a hole in the grains of souls opened and Dervish snuck through a rapier. Except, instead of stabbing it into the lich's body, he used it as a conduit to manifest a cutting arc of Void magic. It was, after all, a part of himself and therefore allowed for directing spells just as well as a hand would; that gave it a split-second edge over casting spells away from one's body. Before the crescent even set flight, Dervish was already withdrawing the piece of himself that had delivered it.

Which turned out to be the right decision. For in the moment the lich was struck by the magic, their body too fell completely into dust. Into infinitesimal fragments of a soul. Millions upon millions of pieces. It was almost unbelievable. Dervish, for all his resolve and extensive training, had managed to split his soul a thousandfold into each of his blades without weakening their connections - and even that much only through a Domain he had taken decades to form. To achieve that had been a long and arduous road.

It was unimaginable to do exponentially more than he had. But liches… Liches were known for their knack for mutilating the soul. Breaching every reasonable limit. And it was shown to him as the dust of the undead mage's body dispersed… right into the ongoing soulstorm. And that changed it. Rather than being every part of the whole, the lich became a million needles, each controlling the haystack of other processed undead souls around them. But if that was all, it would not make a drastic difference.

If it was merely a soul mage doing this it would not be so potent. But this was done by a necromancer. Now that Dervish was so close, the full scope of the spell was revealed – a trap snapping at him. The storm of small, streamlined souls began to rapidly regain its bulk as the lich poured more of its power and stockpile into it. Then, the individual particles of dust-like undead began casting magic. Artificial or stolen, they were still souls.

Though they had no vessel nor brain, they remained a reservoir of magic and raw elemental potential. Of course, it would be impossible for anyone but the best experts in Soul magic to cast without their physical bodies. But the fragments of the necromancer's soul guided them. Squeezed out that disembodied potential and coordinated it. Merged it. Most mortal mages could not cooperate in casting a single spell, simply because the requirement for mutual cooperation was unachievably high.

This grew exponentially with every mage added and with each level of complexity. How could mages possibly merge intentions they understood differently? Assimilate same concepts built on different foundations? But the necromancer bridged that gap, controlling thousands of these mangled souls to coordinate on individual spells. Imprinting on them identical ways of viewing reality and casting magic. Just the souls themselves… it must have taken a decade to prepare for using a spell like this.

And it showed in sheer potency as a kaleidoscope of magic was released. Magic of every element. Not just the Nine but of prismatic elements as well. Most were on the weaker side but attained imbuing intentions. A few surpassed the boundary of conception, making them damaging. Void magic was ineffectual against Dervish but Light? Light was anathema to Void. And Dervish's spell had turned him into a being of pure Void magic. Not to mention Starfire and other iterations that were no less effective.

Dawn magic spoke of the end of the night in every Realm, yet it tried to erase him in that blaze. Grace magic blessed with merciful fate, thought not Dervish but his opponent. Brighsoul shining like a beacon, attempting to vanquish his essence… and more. Dervish found himself pushed back in moments, the flurry that was his being quickly beginning to accumulate damage.

Because no matter how agile he was, how quickly his mind coursed, it was impossible to even notice the tens, if not hundreds of thousands of spells bombarding him every second. Beyond his ability to tell which were dangerous and which were harmless. The thousand black blades that were Dervish retreated and the storm the lich itself had become pursued. But Dervish was not hopeless. Because even though he was losing there was a clear advantage: The undead mage had revealed its cards.

Began a constant spell that, albeit incredibly powerful, had to also be beyond difficult to maintain. Most likely, there was no focus left in them to cast another decisive spell. And the lich was committed to that magic. That meant Dervish could react. And react he did. Though he had no mouth or throat, the blades sang his words:"It opened its maw and before me saw a line cut into sand, Alone I stand Through a line of black I mend another crack.

after all they did take, My blades would not break" And then, the storm of magic was no longer so dangerous. The lesser spells became ineffectual as anything else but a smokescreen and even the magics most dangerous to him lessened in effectiveness. Not to mention his blades began to recover. Cracks closed. Perhaps still not faster than they were being damaged but just barely. It remained a losing battle.

It was still draining at massive amounts of magic and indeed, it offered Dervish no real angle of achieving victory. But the lich was stronger than him anyway - at least with all the preparations. That Dervish didn't doubt anymore. And really, he didn't need to hold their full attention forever. Five hours. A bit less after all that. All he had to do was survive that long. If by then things were not decided down in the city, they were doomed anyway.

He certainly hoped the two prodigies had taken to his lessons well.